


Chaos and Aether

by Hivernal



Series: Chaos and Aether [1]
Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XIII-2, Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Drama, Drama & Romance, Emotions, F/M, Final Fantasy Lore, Friendship, Minor Violence, References to Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 95,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7104292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hivernal/pseuds/Hivernal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People from far-off universes often have a fleeting stay in Eorzea, yet one man arrives when the brink of his own world is balancing on a knife-edge. The quandary? He’s stuck with no obvious solution and falls into the care of people whose own lives are full of peril, danger and intrigue too.</p><p>Will he be able to adapt like he's had to in the past, no matter what fate throws at him? Or will he struggle, weighed down with the impossible demands of learning to operate in a whole new world? Only time - the most persistent of curses - will tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. « Office of the Director - Academy HQ, Academia »

**Author's Note:**

> Extended material regarding the story (including a lore glossary for both universes and a screenshot gallery) can be seen on my tumblr site [@astoriahollow](http://astoriahollow.tumblr.com/stories/chaos).
> 
> Coco Delouix is my Eorzean character on the Balmung server.
> 
> Thank you in advance for reading.

**Chapter One  
** « Office of the Director - Academy HQ, Academia »

Heavy like rain-soaked air, the curse of time asserts its dominance anew. Darkness and solitude reign supreme. A blanket of silence eclipses the low thud of heartbeat, already laboured and hollow. One isolated soul lingers at the juncture of sleep, anticipating that moment of surrender where consciousness collapses into empty space. His imagined dreamscapes pale into insignificance as it happens again; the midnight claws of that nightmare snatching him up at the very last instance. Once again it claims him.

Storm clouds illuminate the sky as white-hot lightning strikes ground zero, shattering the impact site with a brazen contempt for the laws of physics. Gathering itself in a sentient blur of blackness chaos swirls and roils, infecting everything it touches. The air sizzles hot, electric and dangerous whilst a source of incandescent light glows ahead – a colossal orb of crystal glass. There’s a crack so loud it feels like the whole planet splitting asunder and then the pillar supporting Cocoon disintegrates.

Even in this hellish nightmare he cries out in anguish because he knows that Fang and Vanille are gone, crushed to dust beneath countless tonnes of artificial paradise they’d sacrificed themselves to save. Cocoon falls and fragments; the fate of all life sealed upon its collision course with Gran Pulse.

Director Hope Estheim recoils at the precise moment a torrent of debris eviscerates him, tearing his subconsciousness out of sleep’s illusion and throwing him back into the real world. Once the burst of adrenaline dissipates he’s left in an anxious state with cold dread lancing through his heart. As if nightly insomnia isn’t troubling enough, the Oracle Drive’s foreboding prophecy haunts every waking moment. He can’t entertain a single shred of apathy if that future is to be avoided.

Mildly alarmed at how distant he feels, Hope sighs exhaustedly and runs a hand through his hair. Those halcyon days of lucid thought and reasonable working hours lie centuries away now, unfamiliar like a fantasy of someone else’s life. Cutting-edge science had brought him here, but at what cost? Feeling the onset of a powerful migraine, Hope isn’t sure there’s an answer to that question. He feels much closer to the half millennium he’d skipped as opposed to his actual age of twenty-nine.

Sparing a cursory glance at his lunch – a long-abandoned sandwich of limp lettuce and waxy cheese – Hope rises out of his office chair and stretches, every muscle aching after being sprawled in that awkward position. Behind his desk lies a wall of ceiling-high windows and beyond that, Academia replete with darkness. Since the installation of new Cocoon’s core reactors had commenced, the metropolis had been gripped by an energy crisis. Power outages and frequent brownouts now cripple its infrastructure at all times of day, adversely changing life for Academia’s ever-growing population.

To counter the predicament, the Academy’s Council of Governance had issued an edict effective immediately : all commercial and residential power would be turned off at night in order to better expedite work on new Cocoon. Medical facilities and other such vital services are exempt and, whilst citizens occasionally complain at the inconvenience, everyone accept the measure in return for surviving an apocalypse. Or at least earning the chance to.

Hope Estheim, lead researcher in charge of teams Alpha through Theta and honorary member of the Council, turns to face the city. He knows it’s out there, blanketed by darkness and yet stippled with the occasional glow of a beacon’s light, hiding like some colossal photophobic being. Against a night sky peppered in stardust, Academia’s silhouette of jagged shapes lies abyssal black and vapid – an unnatural mountain range fringing the horizon.

Slumbering like so many of its citizens should at this late hour, their technological might counts for nothing without electricity. Holo-arcades and advertising boards, transportation networks and illuminated walkways; coffee makers, toaster ovens and thawing refrigerators – all of them dormant and awaiting the hum of power generators switched back on at dawn.

Placing his right palm flat against the glass window, Hope sighs deeply. He feels like a personification of Academia right now – dark and barren; a living microcosm of the city he loves so unconditionally. No doubt people would find that one fact endearing; the unerring devotion of their Director, even on a barely conscious level. The vast majority are content to accept his outward personality, sculpted into something professional and reliable for their benefit. Pitiable few care enough about the man himself, stored away behind that artificial front. And absolutely no-one is aware of Hope’s existential solitude – that deep and profound loneliness soaking into his soul at times just like this.

For a dedicated scientist intent on saving people, there is no time for a social life. Where his colleagues have friends or a loving family, spouses, children and significant others, Hope is alone in that respect. Sometimes he feels like a living relic; anachronistic to Academia in time’s odd displacement. For all intents and purposes, he’s an artefact of an older time come to rescue the future. That he operates without anyone suspecting his true sadness is only natural. The Academy had taught him how to conceal all of that, after all.

Pushing aside the negative mien, Director Estheim stares out over the metropolis. His head aches with a sleep-deprived migraine and everything inside is turned to gelatinous mush that screams out with any sudden movement. Slowly, as if seeking a suitable distraction, Hope’s fingers trace a route across the window over Academia’s distinctive landmarks.

As he reaches the Orenji café – one of the city’s best-kept secrets – he smiles softly and turns around, dropping exhaustedly into the desk chair. What he wouldn’t give for a flask of steaming freshly-ground coffee and a hazelnut cream pastry, delicious until the very last crumbly flake. Of course, had it been a daytime hour and had he not been spearheading several initiatives to halt an apocalypse, warring with habitual insomnia and overseeing a city on standby power, Hope would have happily walked the half mile over there. Perhaps it’d clear his mind a little too.

Ignoring the ravenous growl in his stomach, Hope instead concentrates on working once more, wincing as the desk light’s ungentle radiance scintillates into being. Neatly arranged over the tabletop are various blueprints, design documents and official requests for funding. Choosing one at random, Hope sees that it’s Delta team’s proposal for a new reactor they’re calling the ‘Axion Centrifuge’.

Noticing the resonant core is to be pure dark matter, Hope’s eyebrows arch up in surprise. He hadn’t been aware that any of his research teams had gotten so desperate as to factor near-mythical materials into their schematics, so that’s a concerning development. Are Academy scientists grasping at straws now?

Palming at his aching forehead, Hope checks the maths and finds it to be surprisingly robust. _If Delta can actually find any dark matter, it’d be worth a try_ , he mulls silently. _I’ll requisition another team for that and they can work with Gamma in the meantime. A scientific breakthrough would do wonders for morale though, Academia’s and my own_. Signing his name to a further dozen requests and stacking the remainder neatly, Hope rubs both eyes with forefinger and thumb before letting out an exhausted sigh. If only he could sleep without seeing that horrific nightmare thrust upon him, over and again.

Rousing the panoramic viewscreen atop his desk from standby mode, Hope brings up the surveillance array and navigates over to Hanger #13. Slicing across the screen is a section of new Cocoon’s outer shell being grafted onto another. Groups of white-coated Academy scientists and engineers anxiously crowd around diagnostic consoles and watch from the sidelines. It’s a procedure the Director has overseen many times himself in the past, stringent in demanding the piezoelectric bonds are calibrated a minimum of three times. Despite the frantic race against time’s curse, there’s no room for complacency.

Hope navigates through each of the hanger cameras, eventually satisfied that everything is proceeding on schedule and, out of random curiosity, switches over to a different section of the building. AMP Lab #02 is operational and yet completely devoid of personnel. Right in the centre of the video feed is an oversize AMP portal, evidently active since its inner surface is rippling black akin to liquid midnight.

Promptly irritated and concerned in equal measure, Hope frowns. By stringent Academy regulations none of the Antimatter Manipulation Principal labs should be unattended when equipment is live. Not only is it an irresponsible waste of energy but also highly dangerous. Complacency around those sub-space portals could all too easily end in disaster. Pulling up the comm system, Hope patches through to AMP Lab #02 and waits patiently. No-one answers.

“Professor Schuyler?” he asks out loud, hearing a reflection of his own voice through the feed. “This is Director Estheim. Please respond.” Nothing. The lack of sound and movement disturbs Hope greatly but then a shadow skitters across the screen and lurches out of sight. He gasps. Perhaps now his mind is playing tricks, hallucinating due to lack of adequate sleep and nourishment. Hope puts a hand to his forehead and tries to think clearly, unable to ignore the concurrent dread slithering through his innards. None of this makes logical sense. Of course, the only real solution is to investigate in person.

Constructed wholly out of chrome and tinted glass panels, AMP Lab #02 is indeed deserted when Director Estheim arrives there. Taking one tentative step over the threshold, he notes an acrid scent of ozone in the air and a low barely audible hum reverberating throughout the room. Almost innocently the active portal shimmers and shines in liquid swells, like a black hole neatly contained within adamantite struts.

Cautiously, Hope approaches and checks the requisite terminal, currently showing a critical error status. Since AMP portals are chiefly used to transport cargo over long distances, by nature they require a grid reference in longitude and latitude – a fixed point upon Pulse to which they’ll open out onto. This particular portal’s terminal has a null destination and yet it’s functional; the sub-space tunnel is stable and active.

Riding a wave of nausea, Hope perceives his migraine amplifying exponentially. Planting one hand on a desk to steady himself, he retrieves the Crystarium out of his satchel with the other, feeling weaker with every passing moment. Reacting to the ambient light levels, his flat-panel device darkens to an opaque shade of obsidian and silently awaits instruction, automatically connecting to the lab’s other, more immovable technologies. With practised ease, Hope’s fingers glide over the Crystarium’s surface and he begins an area-wide diagnostic, pausing briefly in the room’s unsettling ambience before sliding the device back into his satchel.

Hope exhaustedly gazes down at his hand splayed against the chromium tabletop, watching it tremble as he tries to form cohesive thought. Fatigue gnaws throughout every inch of his fractured constitution. One deep steadying breath later and vibrations begin to shudder upwards through his arm; so powerful that Hope can feel them reverberating throughout his entire body. Awareness splinters into blind confusion. Heartbeat dulls to an empty repetitive throb with no meaning. Displacement overcomes Hope as the room shakes and overhead lights fail. And then he’s suddenly unstable on his feet, groping around for something – anything – to hold onto.

The first sensation Director Hope Estheim receives in the lucid blackness is being struck on the head with a heavy object. And the second, just as he’s fading into unconsciousness, is a hand propelling him forwards. Right to where the portal should be.


	2. « Crimson Bark Ruins – The Western Shroud, Eorzea │ day one »

Not even the marbled cloudscape of a brewing thunderstorm can taint The Black Shroud’s ethereal beauty. Beneath the canopies of ancient Heavenspillar exists a more subdued version of the outside world, given to muffled echoes and an atmosphere rich in petrichor. Those whip-like headwinds battering treetops out there are diminished into whispers down here; the forest’s dense and heavy air suffused with their ghostly passing. Rain spatters through the cracks in foliage and dissolves into a fine mist of warm moisture, soaking everything in an indiscriminate blanket.

And yet Crimson Bark is a shadow of its former self, forever changed by the Calamity’s cruel visitation seven years hence. What used to be land overflowing with greenery is now a rift-scarred terrain of deep trenches, dank caverns and colossal tree trunks lying dead upon the forest floor. The modern colour palette includes many more shades of brown and lifeless grey than this part of Eorzea ever had in the Sixth Astral Era.

Even so, nature is attempting to reclaim what had been torn asunder. Woody vines coil through open air and disappear down into earthen fissures where hidden underground springs nourish the Black Shroud from below. Broad-leafed ivy trails along rocky crags and upwards along stout oak trunks, as moss softens the hard edges of a cataclysmic past. Uprooted or split apart by lightning, the great rosewood boles this part of the forest was named for lie covered in tiny new seedlings and minute orchids; their rotting wood now soaked blood-red with inclement haze.

Leaning her back against one such fallen giant is a Wildwood Elezen carefully sketching the view up ahead. In one hand she clutches a notebook stuffed full with myriad notes and drawings, whilst in the other is a sharpened lead pencil. Most Gridanians won’t dare visit this part of the Black Shroud now – labelled cursed and evil by local taboo – but Coco Delouix finds it peaceful here. She feels intimately connected to this land despite not being forest-born herself. Besides, the fewer people that come here to forage, the better. There are rich pickings to be collected – if only you know where to look.

One deep breath of humid air and Coco exhales softly. She’s been standing inert for so long that droplets of moisture have gathered upon the oiled leather of her trousers, glimmering innocently like tiny orbs of glass. Gazing at the curious sight, Coco slots the pencil into her notebook’s spine and brushes a hand down her thigh, watching the water slough off onto the forest floor. Just another moment of breathtaking beauty captured in time and now gone forever.

A while later, both Coco and her white-feathered chocobo are walking northwards along an old riverbed. The sound of hammering rain drifts down through the hazy atmosphere as their path leads slightly uphill, surrounded on all sides with a mixture of overhanging oak and ash bowers. Coco is lost in thought as she often is when left to her own devices, leafing through pages in her memory for recipe ideas. They’d collected a good variety of mushrooms and one very large puffball, in addition to several bushels of fresh herbs and a basket of juicy brambles. Rhongo had even unearthed a few white truffles, which Coco had promised to reward him for later. Those would sell for a premium price at market.

Today’s expedition is a welcome change of pace, for this woman is an adventurer by trade – more specifically, a free paladin honour-bound to defend the innocent with sword and shield. It’s not often she’ll wander off into the woods like this, but the Black Shroud had called to her at dawn’s first light. Perhaps it’s buried deep somewhere within Coco’s soul; this need to be amongst the trees and animals like her ancestors must have countless ages past. Here it’s cathartic and soothing in a way civilisation can never offer; birdsong and the scent of damp leaves; branches crackling underfoot, and a soft pattering of rain on foliage all being part of that earthen magic.

Walking along a mud-caked path with one hand on Rhongo’s saddle, Coco’s gaze is suddenly drawn to a shape up ahead. A misshapen mass upon the old riverbed bottom, it’s partially obscured by greenery but something doesn’t feel quite right about it. Tentatively unsheathing her knife from its holster, Coco commands the chocobo to stay back and approaches, one slow step at a time. Several possible explanations come to mind : a dead antelope’s carcass, some innocuous rock pile or even silver birch bark scrapings curled up and dry.

Yet still, none of those discoveries would rouse the sense of unease presently lurking in Coco’s innards. Something skitters through the undergrowth and off into the trees, causing Rhongo to trill a false alarm call. The proceeding quiet is almost deafening.

Standing around a yalm away, Coco can make out a distinctive splay of fingers against stonewashed pebbles and that familiar curvature of a body. She circles around apprehensively to take a closer look, breathing deep of moist air. Intuition warns that this person is already dead, but something drives her to investigate all the same. It’s a Hyuran man lying unconscious and garbed in a curious outfit of white and canary yellow, with rain-soaked graphite trousers and a length of teal fabric loose around his neck. There’s an oblong satchel slung across a shoulder; the strap of which is digging into deathly ashen skin.

Kneeling down in front of him, Coco gently brushes aside the curious silver hair and presses a hand to the man’s forehead. Fever, burning hot with a passion. Spurred into action she unclasps the cloak from around her neck and spreads it out flat, carefully rolling the man out of the riverbed onto it. A slow trickle of water continues down the trail in his place, washing through a pool of previously hidden blood. Alarm tightens within Coco’s chest upon seeing that bright crimson stain. _He’s bleeding to death_ , she panics within her mind, watching for any stirrings of life. She has basic field training for treating wounds but no real experience as a healer. If the man is that seriously injured, he could die without ever having a chance.

Her thoughts an anxious blur, Coco returns to Rhongo and opens up his saddlebags. She grabs a rolled blanket and tosses it onto her shoulder, desperately trying to find the tiny pearl that will bring lifesaving aid. The chocobo cheeps in a low tone and nuzzles against her shoulder, picking up on his master’s distress. Coco soothes him and scratches his bill, rooting around in yet another pouch. Another and yet another until she feels it lodged into a corner – the Elysian linkpearl.

There are a tense few seconds until the connection stabilises and then, “Pan! Can you hear me? I need your help, right now.”

“What’s wrong, Coco?” a voice replies, calm in contrast to her fearful tone. “And where are you?”

“Crimson Bark, about half a malm south of old Crosswater in the riverbed.” She pauses, glancing to the unconscious form. “I found a man here in a serious condition and I’m afraid he’s going to die without a healer. He’s bleeding. You’ll need to bring Lhei and – ”

“Calm yourself,” the voice interrupts, “Take a deep breath. Coincidentally, we’re already at Bentbranch on escort detail. Should be able to find your trail easily enough if you’re sticking to the riverbed. Here, talk to Lhei. And keep yourself safe.”

Leading Rhongo by the reins, Coco walks back over to the man and kneels down beside him as Lhei starts to outline a plan of action. It’s a tense flurry of activity until she finally stops to rest, but now there’s a fire crackling nearby as a blanket-wrapped stranger soaks in its glowing warmth. Conjurer Lhei had instructed Coco to gather a bundle of clean leaves and douse them in water, placing them onto the man’s forehead like a wet cloth until his fever slaked off a little. At least now the bloodless pallor has lifted slightly, even if he has remained unresponsive the whole time.

Left with nothing to do except wait, Coco sits down upon a dry patch of ground and leans back onto Rhongo’s flank, eyeing the man curiously. Just like a feathered blanket, the white chocobo is fluffy and warm, providing a modicum of comfort in this most dire of situations. Stroking his head as it’s resting comfortably in her lap, Coco sighs and reaches backwards, retrieving the notebook from Rhongo’s saddlebag. She should record this moment in time like grandfather had always coached, documenting the momentous occasions in life. It’s not every day she chances across comatose strangers, after all.

Despite the brief distraction, Coco’s gaze is repeatedly drawn to that man. The earlier storm has cleared now and there’s a serene calm in which the forest sleeps in its rain-soaked aftermath. Curious, she takes in his rounded features and parched mouth, currently the source of faint and laboured exhalations. It’s her responsibility to safeguard the innocent as a paladin but she hadn’t ever anticipated it’d be like this, watching over a strange man until real help arrives.

“Who are you?” Coco whispers out loud, her mind mulling over the coincidences. Had she not been drawn out here, she’d never have found this man. He would have died without anyone ever learning of his fate; still could die, depending on how serious those injuries are. What a terrible end to anyone’s life – bleeding to death in a coma all alone in the Twelveswood.

A sudden tightness in Coco’s chest makes her gasp aloud as vision blurs and an odd mental fog soaks into her consciousness. Crimson Bark’s wooded scenery darkens to pitch all around and strange sounds emanate out of the blackness – shattering glass, hot sparking electricity and voices calling out for salvation. Someone calls her name from a vast distance away. When Coco feels the hand gripping onto her shoulder like a vice, she whirls upwards with the nearest weapon to hand and finds herself staring into the bright citrine orbs of a Miqo'te.

“Pan!” she gasps, hastily dropping the vine-cutting blade she’d unsheathed earlier. “I’m so sorry. I was malms away and – ”

“Don’t apologise. I should know better than to startle a swordswoman,” he states with a wry smile. “Are you well?”

“Me? I’m fine but … ” she trails off, slowly turning around to reassure herself the stranger is still there. Pahn'a Epocan notes his best friend’s reaction and turns to look in her chosen direction.

“Lhei’s here now. Don’t worry.” He sighs. “However, I am concerned at you being out here alone in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’m not alone if Rhongo’s with me,” Coco answers in a quiet voice. There are more important matters to hand.

Kneeling on the ground is a tiny Miqo'te woman with tawny-coloured skin and a long bushy tail that weaves unconsciously back and forth as she works. An open drawstring pouch filled with a rainbow spectrum of glass vials sits beside her whilst bundles of clean bandages and blood-soaked cloth lie separated by a hand’s breadth. Evidently the conjurer hadn’t wasted any time and is already dressing a gouge on the man’s left shoulder. Coco hadn’t seen that one; only the lateral wound on his upper thigh. A knot of anxiety worries at her stomach upon seeing that. It could already be infected.

“Did well with the scarf to stop his bleedin’ there, honey,” Lhei Yusnaan casts over her shoulder as she dabs an amber-hued liquid onto some cotton wool. “But he’s got high fever an’ he’s soaked wet through, so there’s a chill set in.” She tilts the man’s head, pursing her mouth. “Concussion it looks like too. Nothin’ broken, bit of blood loss. Lucky you found him.”

“Is he … ” Coco begins and tapers off, unable to finish her sentence. The possibility that this stranger could die is harrowing.

“Gonna live? Maybe. Depends.” Lhei rises up and walks over to a chocobo-drawn cart, digging through several bags before returning with a simple unadorned wand. With one hand she slowly coalesces an orb of lucent aether, gathering it within her claws, and then passes the wand right through. Like gossamer spun sugar, strands of light cling to the carved wood and shimmer brightly, hanging in an ethereal crescent. The surrounding forest seems much darker against its beautiful radiance and yet as soon as Lhei kneels down before the man, she leaps back in alarm.

“Twelve forfend!” she hisses through bared teeth, “What in the hells is he?” Lhei’s two-toned eyes flick between a startled Coco and a quietly scowling Pahn'a, awaiting some kind of reaction from either. When none is forthcoming she begins to pace, bushy tail twitching like an agitated viper. “This ain’t right,” she mutters, palming the now-inert wand from one hand to the other.

“What isn’t?” Pahn'a sighs and folds both arms across his chest. “Honestly Lhei, now is not the time for amateur dramatics.”

“Can’t neither of you sense it? You’re a mage, boss. You yankin’ my tail now, am I right?” the little healer growls.

Her Miqo'te counterpart shrugs and states, “Give me the benefit of the doubt and please explain clearly for us, Lhei.”

After a tense few seconds, the tiny Miqo'te woman stops pacing and fixes her eyes upon the injured man. She takes a long deep breath, her strong reaction causing Coco to worry even more. It’s not like Lhei to panic in such manner.

“Everythin’ on this star contains aether, am I right? Everythin’. These trees, a nice plump roasted fish, mighty thunderstorms an’ pennants flappin’ in the wind. Yeah? Even this – ” she scoops a rock from the ground and brandishes it, “ – has aether. But that man … there ain’t a drop in him. Not a single bleedin’ one.”

Feeling that mental fog loom at the periphery of her consciousness again, Coco takes one step closer to the enigmatic stranger. He’s still lying completely motionless on her cloak, surrounded by blood-soaked rags and empty glass vials. Soft riparian grasses are sprouting from the earth all around him, wavering listlessly in a feeble breeze. Something inside compels her to safeguard this strange man despite everything Lhei had told them.

There have always been rumours of people from other worlds, of course, but none of them had any real evidence to substantiate those wild claims. Only the whisper of fanciful folklore passed down through generations survives to this day, but what if it could be true? Perhaps this aether-barren stranger is one such example – if only Coco can prevent his needless death.

“Can you save him?” she asks the disconcerted healer, voice sounding quiet and strained even to herself. Lhei exhales noisily and throws both hands into the air in resignation.

“There’s nothin’ to heal, love. He’s beyond – ”

“I mean with medicine,” Coco interrupts. “Tonics, alchemy or traditional Seeker lore. I don’t know. Whatever it takes to stop him from dying.” She kneels down before the injured stranger and sighs. “I’ll take responsibility for him.”

“Coco.” Pahn'a places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes tight. “We don’t know what he is. Mayhap it’s wise not to interfere and fate should run its course. I’ll support you in any endeavour, but when that paladin’s oath puts my dearest friend in harm’s way I shan’t stand idle.”

“Fate led me here, Pan. And I won’t allow an innocent man to perish.” She stands and turns to face the Miqo'te man, frowning into those buttery eyes. The past lingers still in the form of hurtful memories. “I can’t go through that again.”

He nods with a sad twinge of a smile and sighs lightly, apparently knowing better than to argue when Coco sets her mind on something. A fresh wind tumbles through the gnarled oak bowers carrying with it scents of yet another approaching storm. There’s a displaced sense of determination smoothing over the cracks of Coco’s own uncertainty as she turns back to Rhongo and snuggles into his warm white down.

If that really is a man from another world, she dare not anticipate what that could mean. Questions bubble forth in her mind. What is his name? Where does he come from? How would he understand a word they’re saying? But there’s one query to ascend all others. Would they be able to save his life and return him to consciousness? Glancing up at the looming thunderclouds in slate and dove grey squalls, Coco certainly hopes they can.


	3. « Delouix Residence, Astoria Hollow – The Lavender Beds, Eorzea │ day four »

After wandering out onto the balcony, Coco takes a breath of cool night air and pulls the woollen cardigan tight across her chest. Everything about this summer’s eve is beautiful and yet altogether too tranquil for her liking. Midnight blue soaks into the landscape like spilled ink on parchment paper; its obscure density drinking in what little moonlight escapes from behind the celestial cloudscape.

The only real signs of life out here are lazy spirals of smoke from neighbouring chimney stacks and an occasional scuffle of leaves upon a momentary breeze. Even the fireflies are conspicuous in their absence tonight, evidently choosing to forego haunting around street lamps lining the cobbled walkway.

As Coco glances northwards along the trail to where Elysian’s free company manor lies at the very apex, she feels a sudden shiver of cold rattling down her spine. Thoroughly chilled, she returns inside and shuts both stained glass balcony doors before glancing over to her bed. It’s still sitting there quite innocently; not that it could have moved entirely by itself. That most ornate of wooden boxes is still an inanimate object, after all.

Somewhat reluctantly Coco walks over to the bed and sits down, sinking into the quilted throw whilst keeping both eyes fixed upon her quarry. Having retrieved it from the basement some bells ago, she now feels conflicted by its mere presence. That it’s such an exquisite work of craftsmanship does relatively little to dispel the associated memories of mournful sadness. A cubed box constructed out of fragrant cassia and midnight ebony – so called for its black veneer with a silvery grain like starry nights – it had been a gift from Coco’s grandfather, Sylvain Delouix.

She can still remember that night as if it were yesterday. A radiant autumnal evening complete with sunburst sky and balmy breeze skirting across the land, it had been Coco’s sixteenth nameday. There’d been a small cake upon the dining table, lemon with candied orange pieces sliced into neat segments. Next to it, handwritten notes from each of her parents. They’d been working late as was often the case – her father at Saint Mocianne’s Arboretum and mother attending a late council – and so it had just been Coco and Sylvain. Ever since that night she’d cherished the box as a prized possession, but to look upon it tore open a painful wound each and every time.

All throughout her formative years, the pair would spend nights huddled by the hearth drinking mulled apple juice and Sylvain would regale little Coco with tales of the Black Shroud – his own homeland. There’d be lessons about flora and fauna, detailed accounts of the Gelmorrans’ tragic history and stories of white mages living in a magical stone city. Over the years, Sylvain had inspired in his granddaughter a kind of hallowed reverence for the Twelveswood and she’d resolved to live there one day, achieving that some prosperous years after becoming an adventurer.

But the most heartfelt of Sylvain’s lessons had been those of temperance and respect for all living beings; teaching Coco that life is a precious entity bound within a complex tangle of rules and moral obligations. To take a man’s life is no casual matter and nor is wilful slaughter of innocent animals any more acceptable. That small tenet of Gridania’s culture had been passed along from Sylvain to his granddaughter, still guiding Coco’s ethical compass today. It’s especially important in her career as a free paladin. Grandfather had taught her to stay true; to never be caged by expectations and to always carve her own path in life, no matter where it would lead.

To that end Coco feels her family's loss as an even sharper pain. When times are hard and adversity strikes she misses Sylvain most of all. He had been so instrumental in her life. And this box – a beautifully ornate piece of carpentry – is all that's left of him now. She doesn't know if they're alive or not. The Sharlayan homeland and Eorzea exactly don't have a healthy relationship, after all, and trying to seek information without a proper network of informants over there is like squeezing blood from a stone; an utterly fruitless venture unless you're a void mage of some repute.

Back in the present, Coco glides a hand along the box lid’s inlaid carving of dragons in flight. Contained safely within are grandfather’s journals, individually wrapped in fragrant bamboo paper. She retrieves the very top specimen and closes her eyes, breathing in its floral scent and allowing a moment of composure. If it hadn’t been for that poor stranger in the forest this box would have remained in the basement. It’s with a keen sense of desperation Coco needs it now, dredging up the hurtful past with wilful determination.

Unwrapping each journal in turn, Coco searches for the section on fever tonics she recalls from childhood memories. The silver-haired man has been comatose for three whole days now, remaining in a kind of torpor with little sign of recovery. He’s currently abed at the Elysian household where Lhei can better soothe his symptoms, but she’s just about exhausted every traditional remedy known to her Yusnaan kin. Whenever a poultice or potion does actually work, the fever slakes off for a mere few bells and then returns with slight differences. It has been a never-ending puzzle of alchemy and herb lore.

Equal parts staunch optimist and concerned assistant, Coco has visited every day in hopes of a change. She’d watched the tiny Miqo'te dress and re-dress oozing wounds, feed the man dribbles of ginger-infused water and occasionally snarl in frustration when another concoction failed to work. As far as Coco knows, Lhei has never lost a patient in all of her years as a conjurer and traditional Keeper of the Moon healer. Neither of them wants to lose this one.

Regarding her own endeavours, Coco has risen at dawn each morning to scour the Twelveswood for rare and elusive herbs, sometimes heading back out once more if Lhei had found yet another remedy in a tattered old field journal. It has been exhausting, both emotionally and physically. Pursuing literally every lead possible, Coco had quizzed traders and Twin Adder chirurgeons, sought advice from conjurers of the Stillglade Fane and had even parleyed with Gridania’s smaller trading outfits.

Her future services as a paladin seemed fair recompense for providing some foreign materials, but those lines of inquiry had turned up nothing. Sifting through the market wards had similarly proved futile; even if the more enthusiastic merchants did extol the virtues of ‘mythical spices’ and ‘healing herbs of legend’.

Turning the pages of grandfather Sylvain’s notes, renewed pain surfaces within Coco’s heart. This is why the midnight ebony box – magnificent as it is – remains underneath a tarpaulin in the basement, safely out of sight and mind. Distracted by the sorrow she almost misses the bright flowers painted in miniature and Sylvain’s curving script denoting fever remedies. A hum of excited anticipation warms through Coco.

“Coneflower,” she reads aloud, “Ideal in a poultice for curing fevers and high temperature. Plentiful in and around the Orn Wild and Dravanian forelands. Makes a very potent tonic when pulped and blended into dandelion tea. Use sparingly.”

Even factoring in an airship directly from Gridania to Ishgard, that particular solution requires around four days of hard travel. Setting aside the initial disappointment Coco forges onward. Several pages further and she’s no closer to a solution.

“Gron Ahlm. A favourite remedy of the dragons that involves charring the plant’s bright pink flowers with flame. The resulting ash is used to coat raw meat and is eaten to relieve prolonged fever. Rarely found within the Chocobo Forest upon grassy hillocks and vales.” Coco sighs irritably and notes, “Use dried ash sparingly in a diluted suspension of saline water.”

Turning page after page, there are dozens of forgotten remedies. The only problem is that every single one requires plants endemic to the Dravanian wilderness. Finding a trader with live specimens at present residing in Gridania, and then expecting him to part with them seems like hoping for a miracle. It’s impossible on all fronts. Coco had already outstayed her welcome at the botanists’ guild yesterday, inundating the guildmaster with a torrent of questions. Even if by some random chance they had one of the plant specimens, getting them to hand it over would be very unlikely now.

Coco falls backwards onto the bed and exhales tersely, unsettling the pygmy dodo huddled up between cotton pillows. As candlelight wanes against the looming darkness, she tries to imagine what grandfather would do in such a dire situation. The thoughts continue for a long while, punctuated with one deep rose-scented draught of air after another, inhaled and then exhaled softly. That had been one positive outcome of all this research : she’d collected so many rose petals that there’d been enough to make candles with the ample leftovers.

Soothed by that sweetness, Coco stares up at the ceiling even as sleep tugs powerfully at her resolve. Sylvain Delouix would never abandon an innocent man’s plight and – if she wants to uphold his memory – his granddaughter won’t either. No-one could ever question her dedication as a protector of the innocent – a valiant and honourable paladin. And yet this is different entirely. There’s an inexplicable draw in safeguarding that silver-haired man. What if he really is from another world? Perhaps he could teach Coco all about it, if he ever makes it out alive. So many questions and no prevalent answers.

“What do you think, Choux?” she muses and lifts the dodo from his comfortable perch. Rolling onto her side with him, Coco curls up into a loose ball and cuddles up to him like a fluffy pillow, stroking along his spine. Choux yawns with a lazy stretch of those vestigial wings, his feathers puffing up into a fat ball and flattening back down in due course. The warm brown part reminds Coco of ginger cake and compliments the other half, pale like shortbread cookies. Quite typical, given this dodo’s penchant for unhealthy snacks.

“If only we knew a friendly dragon that would fly us over to Dravania and back. We could make that journey in less than a day and be home in time for dinner, huh.” Now it’s Coco’s turn to elongate into an opulent yawning arch. “Maybe I can convince Pan to open a void gate for us. Or if we somehow found an Allagan teleporter in the middle of the Shroud, that could help. Right? We need something that can save him, Choux. I’d take anything right now.”

The sleepy dodo grumbles as if in response. His plumage fluffs into a sphere before settling down once more. Temporarily defeated and unable to fend off the fatigue interwoven throughout her body, Coco allows herself to relax. Perhaps she’ll be more successful in the land of dreams, unfettered by the real world’s attempts to stymie her every move. She breathes slow and deep. That aromatic scent is so very calming. Good thing there’d been enough petals to make a batch of rosewater.

Just before the precise moment sleep claims Coco as its own, she visualises one last conscious image. It’s of that man sprawled atop a pebbled riverbed, soaked wet through and helpless as he bleeds to death, reaching out like a pallid ghost.


	4. « Pathway to Dappled Stalls – The Lavender Beds, Eorzea │ day six »

In those halcyon days before Dalamud’s impact, The Mirror in Central Shroud had been a completely different landmark. Overlooking the northern shore of this great lake – a flat, deathly still sheet of water fully deserving its ancient moniker – lay a circular plateau of land carpeted with sprouting grasses. In a forest full of such places, it may have seemed no different to any other. And yet the name of this one clearing would live onward in dedication to the adventurers who’d helped to save Eorzea on the cusp of an umbral era – The Lavender Beds. Once just a glade possessed of a magnificent variety of its namesake flower – every shade from blush pink to indigo blue – and now host to residential estates.

The location itself had changed radically in those intervening years. Thronged by gigantic Heavenspillar boles and plummeting waterfalls now, the entire region had been transformed from a peaceful lakeside idyll to a deep basin carved into the earth. Riverbed shallows teeming with life flow around the residential area’s islet and their crystal clear waters are undeniably pure. Down at the southern end is Yainu-Par; a Padjal name for a modern ferry port – the only access point in and out of the whole area, discounting heavily-sanctioned travel by air.

Having almost reached Elysian’s free company house, Coco is beginning to wish she’d saddled Rhongo instead of choosing to struggle on foot. One disadvantage of the Lavender Beds is that, because it lies low on a river basin, it’s sheltered from bracing winds that bring in freshness from the southern forest. As a result, when a thick fog rolls in off the plateau, it tends to linger heavily around the islet. And that isn’t exactly the ideal climate for trudging uphill like a pack chocobo on very little sleep. Coco’s own house is much further down the cobbled walkway, which rises steeply and curves around water wheels, ornamental lily ponds and adventurer homes of varying sizes.

Despite the inclement weather, Coco is perspiring beneath the hippogryph leather overcoat. She’d chosen tight-fitting charcoal trousers and flat-heeled boots just past her knees with a simple linen shirt beneath the coat. An oversize wicker basket is clutched in her left hand. There’s a haversack over one shoulder and the stranger’s satchel slung over the other. Apart from tentatively caressing its outer surface – made from a mysterious waterproofed resin – Coco had stored it in the study after she’d brought it home. It had been a tempting draw. Perhaps there are clues to the silver-haired man’s identity within, but Coco had wanted to preserve that small shred of dignity left to him. That is the only true moral choice.

With a resolute sigh, she pushes back the auburn bangs obscuring her vision and feels fatigue gnawing at her temples. Yesterday had quite literally been a nightmare. After attempting to sleep through bouts of fragmented dreams, strange noises from beyond the bedroom window and feeling that self-conscious despair in lucid moments of wakefulness, Coco had given in. She’d gotten out of bed in a prickly mood, dressed in that pre-dawn darkness and headed into the kitchen. Flour, hens’ eggs from the coup and a veritable tonze of powdered sugar had been her erstwhile companions then, enabling a spiritual recuperation of sorts.

Whisking cake batter and kneading bread dough had worked most of the frustration out, but not all of it. Coco couldn’t shake that mental image of dark blood on stone and clouded eyes staring up at her in silent pleading. In the end she’d been surprised to discover that almost every ilm of kitchen worktop had been covered with platters of delicious food and towering stacks of dishes, pans and cooking utensils that all needed washing up. A need for distraction had been that strong.

Baking is ever an altruistic pleasure for Coco, representing a keen interest that incorporates many aspects of self she doesn’t get to show otherwise : innovation, artistry or the inherited fondness for botany. Knowing just where to find wild solstice garlic or the sweetest cinnamon bark can be a lucrative skill – for friendship and epicurean delight both. Of course, Elysian members cherish Coco’s culinary endeavours and so too do those little salmon-breasted finches in her garden, perching atop the bird table for scraps. _It’s probably why Choux is so spoiled_ , she smiles to herself. _Well, at least he’s a happy dodo_.

Yet that had been first thing this morning and tension is slowly easing back, worming its way into her consciousness. This is the fifth such day she’s trudged uphill from her house laden with negative thoughts. How much longer could a man survive in that state with no sign of recovery? Would there be a point Lhei refused to try any more? Those answers aren’t at all obvious, no matter how much you worry over them. Almost to the Elysian house Coco pauses by a communal garden and sits down upon a wall, briefly relinquishing her cargo to the ground. In the thick soupy fog there isn’t much of a view today and instead all that’s visible is a landscape of blurred shapes looming within dense curtains of haze.

Closing her eyes, Coco tries ward herself against those negative thoughts swirling around in her head. She need only cling onto faith and not fall prey to darkness, but that’s easier said than done. They’re crowding like hungry wolves around a lost sheep, waiting for that inevitable moment when her guard will drop.

Time drifts by slowly as she sits upon the wall, appreciating the sensation of a cool and refreshing breeze. Thirsty for its quenching clarity she breathes it deep into her lungs. Far off to the north there’s a soft hiss of sound; a hauntingly familiar whisper like the patter of grain upon hard-baked earth. And then Coco feels the cold hammering rain and remembers exactly what it is with perfect recollection.

When Pahn'a Epocan answers the knock upon his front door, Coco isn’t sure what infuriates her most : the way his face contorts into an amused expression, or the fact that he doesn’t say a single word and just stares openly.

“Yes, as you may have noticed, it is indeed raining,” Coco snaps. She’s miserable and cold and soaked wet through now. Rainwater trickles down the front of that linen shirt – long since plastered to her skin – and slithers down off the auburn strands of waterlogged hair, snaking under the coat’s collar and straight down her back. It’s doubtful there’s a dry part of her body left; memories of warm and arid times elusive now like summer sunshine.

“That I can clearly see,” Pahn'a states flatly. Neither of them move for a few seconds and then, “So, I have to ask. Are you content to stand there in the rain or would you actually like to come in? Because, well, all of our lovely warm air is escaping and this humidity plays merry hells with my fur.” To his credit, Pahn'a doesn’t even flinch at the daggers aimed right at him.

A while later they’re standing in the small and economical Elysian kitchen. Although it’s cosy in here with a wood-burning stove and lingering scents of breakfast, Coco leans against the granite counter and shivers. Her long hair is bundled up in a cotton towel and she’s wearing someone else’s cleanly-washed shirt, seeing as her own is little more than a wet rag. Shame about the trousers though. They’re heavy and sodden, pressing against her skin like the slimy wetness of a flatfish. She sighs, feeling utterly downcast and wretched.

Meanwhile, the contents of the wicker basket all made it without suffering so much as a drop of rain. Unwrapped on the worktop now are a traditional Sharlayan game pie decorated with pastry leaves in a cheesecloth, two loaves of sun-dried tomato and olive bread, several flaky apricot tarts, and fourteen identical cupcakes. Each one of the latter is topped in pink rose-flavoured buttercream and decorated with a sugared petal arranged on top. Their perfect composition irritates Coco to no end right now. Why should they have survived unscathed when she’s every ilm drenched and bristling with ire?

“Here,” Pahn'a says and hands over a steaming mug of liquid. “What a delicious spread of food. Shame about the cook.”

“You don’t deserve either of us.” Coco takes a sip of the drink and grimaces. “Especially not for this coffee. Dear gods, have I taught you nothing in all these years! Really, Lominsan lowlands blend. You do know what they spread on this dross, right?”

“Hmm, let’s see if I can guess.” Pahn'a moves in front of her and reaches across, tucking an errant lick of auburn hair back underneath the towel. “Ah. Well, it has to be the tears of Elezen coffee connoisseurs, doesn’t it?” His expression remains perfectly composed for several seconds and then he cracks, bursting into raucous laughter.

“I hate you.” Coco scowls and shoves him away, taking another sip of the horrendous coffee. It’s gritty and tastes of salt.

“Such an adorable cuteness when you’re ornery,” the Miqo'te laughs. “Just look at you all puffed up like Choux.”

“Oh hush,” she grumbles but smiles despite the teasing. That man and his damned infectious joy. “Where’s Lhei today?”

Pahn'a grins at her and then picks up one of the rose cupcakes, turning it this way and that in examination before taking a bite. Buttercream daubs the tip of his nose as he shrugs non-committally. “Sleeping. Finally got a good night’s rest.”

Coco’s heart freezes within her chest. Had that nightmarish vision come true? “Does that mean – ”

“In other news, we received some concerning reports from a contact of ours yesterday,” Pahn'a interrupts and licks his fingers clean. “Another one turned up dead outside of Camp Bronze Lake, stone dead.” He glances at Coco and apparently discerns the unasked question. “No, no. Not a mysterious man from another world. An adventurer just like you and I. Actually, I had been hoping to catch you this morning and talk about it at some length. If you recall, this is the ninth such murder we’ve heard of this moon alone and I’m concerned for your safety. Perhaps with us you’ll – ”

“No. My answer is the same as it’s always been,” Coco interrupts. “But what about the stranger, Pan? Is he awake yet?”

Elysian’s leader sighs heavily. This isn’t the first time he’s been rebuffed on this particular topic. “At least consider it. Please? Whoever is behind all of these cold-blooded killings is specifically targeting lone adventurers like you. Perhaps they’re even malicious enough to post non-existent jobs in order to lure people out into isolated locales.” Another exhaled breath and, “On this occasion the victim was a Roegadyn built like a behemoth. A Bronze Lake guard found him floating face down in the shallows with a leg torn off, salamanders driven into a frenzy at the scent of blood.”

“You know I work alone,” Coco states, ruffling the cotton towel over her damp tresses. “Paladins often do and besides, no-one knows if the same person is carrying out all of these attacks or not. You’re just assuming it is and scaremongering me into joining your free company.” She smiles to soften that last comment. “I don’t need to join Elysian. I’m sorry.”

Pahn'a folds both arms across his chest and sighs, “Not that you’ve done any notable adventuring of late.”

“Come on, Pan. I needed a break. That’s all,” Coco sighs in response. She massages her forehead to ease a thrumming headache and tips the remaining coffee down the sink, freely embracing thirst over that awful black swill. “And actually I’m headed out on a contract tomorrow just outside of Wineport. Perhaps the sea air will do me a world of good.”

“Pindon is free. I could send him with – ”

“No, Pan. There’s no need. Honestly, it’s like you don’t trust me to do the job I’ve been doing for years. I’m not suddenly going to become this incapable wreck overnight and there are far more important matters on my mind right now.”

“Oh, of that I am aware,” Pahn'a growls and leers. “The same matter you’ve been obsessed with for five whole days now.”

Coco stares into those citrine eyes for a tense few seconds and then relents, turning to gaze out of the kitchen window. Rain is pouring down the glass in rivulets, splashing on the sill and dousing everything in the same muted grey hue of desolation. Chills shiver down her spine upon seeing those silhouettes of portent doom in a memory; scarlet blood, white unseeing eyes and a claw-like hand, reaching out. Despite every obstacle thrown at them, Coco’s determination survives.

“I won’t let him die,” she states. Her friend – shorter and with the lithe build of a mage – refuses to be undermined. He moves to stand in front of Coco and glares up at her, almost bristling.

“Why do you care so much? I understand that your paladin’s oath compels you, but this relentless drive is insane. One day it will get you killed or worse,” Pahn'a breathes through gritted teeth. Tension hangs heavily in the air around them. Only the drumming of raindrops and a rush of water through the manor’s gutter dare interrupt. “Lesser adventurers have perished believing that they can save everyone, Coco. It’s a hollow aspiration. Fortunately for me, this tireless vigil of yours is over.”

“What happened?” she challenges him, fear clutching at her chest like a set of steel talons. Barbs of cold dread stab into her mind despite the warm and cosy atmosphere of Elysian’s kitchen. Had she been too late? Is the otherworldly man dead?

Pahn'a watches her with a hawkish look and remains silent, evidently judging her reaction. Trepidation thrums inside of Coco the longer he stares, twisting around her innards in oily slithers. Unable to bear it any more she grabs him by the shoulders and shakes, demanding an answer.

“He woke up,” her friend admits with a sad smile, squeezing both of her elbows affectionately. “His fever finally broke.”

Feeling a rush of lightness that banishes dark ruminations back into the Void, Coco gasps breathlessly. A weight lifts instantly from her shoulders and, for the first time in a stressful span of days, she can finally relax. With Lhei’s healing talent and her own dogged tenacity they’d actually done it; dual-threaded perseverance having saved that silver-haired man.

“Thank you, Pan.” Coco’s voice is tainted with gratitude as she wraps her arms around him and hugs tightly. A wellspring of elation bubbles up inside, but Pahn'a merely grumbles.

“No need. I suppose you’ll want to see for yourself how he’s faring?” Despite his obvious misgivings, Pahn'a smiles at his friend’s too-enthusiastic nod. “Then what are you waiting for, Coco? You know where his room is, I assume.”


	5. « Elysian Free Company house – The Lavender Beds, Eorzea │ day six »

Having weathered a storm of seemingly insurmountable odds, Coco now stands before one last obstacle in her path. This is not, however, another race against time for secret potion recipes or scrabbling through malms of woodland for a single elusive plant; nor does it facilitate uncovering painful memories of the past or bouts of insomnia, lying awake at night desperate for answers. Rather, it’s simply a door. A beautiful dark-grained and heavily knotted door made of luxurious olive wood, yet undoubtedly mundane compared to the week’s events so far.

The honest truth is that Coco had never anticipated just what would happen after the stranger had woken up. It had been like the relentless, instinct-driven chase of predator and prey – being the fastest, most deadly entity she could possibly be – in hunting down a solution to save him. But now she’s perched upon the finishing line there’s an unanticipated tension in the air. A thousand questions curl themselves around Coco’s emotional centre. What should she say to him? Would he even know who she is or of the extents herself and Lhei had gone to revive him? How much does he even remember?

Coco sighs nervously. She places a palm flat against the door and feels her heart pounding much faster than it should in this situation. _Why are you so nervous? It’s just a man_ , she tells herself. _Compose yourself and stay calm. There’s no rush_.

Upon opening the door, the first detail she notices is the clean and fragrant air brushing past her face. On previous days it had been soaked in the typical odours of sickness : sweat, wood smoke from the fireplace, an occasional acrid tang or strong scent of pulped flowers interspersed with vinegar, medicinal wine or mixed herb juice. They’d gone through an entire storeroom full of ingredients, which Coco constantly re-supplied herself or had delivered from the Gridanian markets. It had taken that with Lhei’s nineteen years of healing expertise and one paladin’s valiant grit to arrive at this point.

The stranger himself is asleep in a bed of clean blue linen patterned with dark flowers, head listing to one side on the stacked-up pillows. He’s dressed in what looks to be a short-sleeved tunic in oyster grey, neatly matching the fresh silver of his hair. _Lhei must have cleaned it at some point_ , Coco finds herself wondering as she takes in the room. There’s a large pillar candle atop a cabinet – presumably the source of that spicy ginger-lemon scent floating around – and boxes of medical supplies stacked by the cold hearth. Piles of washed white linen sit in folded squares upon the parquet floor.

Content that all signs of earlier disarray have been expunged from the room, Coco turns back to its central figure. His fingers are curled into involuntary crooks upon the bedsheets and he still looks so very frail and gaunt. That continual fever must have taken a heavy toll. Even so, the man is in a much improved state than he had been in previous days; no longer clutched in the claws of an uncertain future. Coco’s stomach knots as she realises how close he’d been to dying multiple times, yet they’d dragged him back from the brink – both herself and Lhei refusing to give up.

Quiet like a hunting owl, she deposits his satchel and her laden haversack down by the outer wall. A small bay window is open to let fresh air in but with the rain it’s slightly chilly now, exciting gooseflesh onto her exposed forearms. Still, Coco leans on the sill and gazes out, clutched by a strange conflict of emotions; exhausted but elated, nervous yet brimming with curiosity. She takes a deep breath of rain-soaked earth-scented air – the Black Shroud’s distinctive petrichor so different from that back home in Dravania – and exhales slowly.

Jolted by the memory of Sharlayan, Coco wonders if grandfather Sylvain would be proud of her now. There are so many unbelievable tales to recount since they were last together. Would there ever be a chance to tell them? It’d be peculiar that their roles would be reversed and he’d be the listener for once, should it happen. _Such is the passing of time_ , she surmises.

“Hello.” The voice startles Coco out of her daydream and she spins around, hand splayed across her heart. Gazing at her is the stranger, newly awake now and sitting up in bed. Despite the prevalent illness his eyes are the most amazing hue of blue-green, just like pools of frozen ocean. Lowering herself into a chair by the bed, she turns to face him.

“Hi,” she answers in turn, feeling nerves twist inside of her. _Come on. You can do better than that._ “How are you feeling?”

“Terrible.” His voice is cracked and dry but soft like his momentary smile. “I’m sorry. That was ungracious of me.”

The room falls quiet as neither of them speak for a time. It doesn’t feel awkward but somehow necessary, like there’s a needed gap of silence to compose themselves and prepare what will happen next. Pattering rain and the slosh of water within a gutter fills the quietness, some soft rumbling of thunder mellowed by great distance. Folding both arms across her chest, Coco is secretly hoping he speaks first because she has no idea what to say. Lhei’s nickname had been pretty much spot-on though – ‘Silver’ for the odd metallic sheen of his hair, striated like hardsilver ingots on a goldsmith’s workbench.

“That fiery red hair from the forest,” the man says after a short while. “I remember now. You saved my life out there.”

Coco breaks their tentative gaze and glances downwards as embarrassment warms her cheeks. She has never felt comfortable receiving gratitude for what is simply part of a paladin’s role in life – protecting the innocent and upholding justice. Besides, she couldn’t take all of the credit.

“I merely discovered you. My friend Lhei is the healer and the person responsible for your actual recovery, so I did relatively little in comparison.” She pauses, feeling the man’s eyes upon her somehow. One positive outcome is that he’s apparently not suffering from amnesia after that protracted fever, which is yet another blessed relief. “What else do you remember?”

“Fragments,” the man breathes in a raspy voice. “Nothing of any real cohesion. But if you hadn’t found me I wouldn’t be here right now. I’d be dead.” He coughs to clear his throat and shuffles into a more upright position. “May I ask your name?”

“It’s Coco,” she states, glancing up at him and noting the heavy undulation of his chest beneath the covers.

The silver-haired man smiles softly. “Then, thank you Coco. Another question, if I may. How long have I been asleep?”

“Five days. But most of that you – ” she stops upon seeing his reaction – a pained struggle for breath and a wild, unbelieving expression. The man clutches at his chest, a dry crackling wheeze punctuating every respiration.

Stirred into action by his discomfort, Coco rises from the chair feeling negligent and somewhat guilty. A more considerate host would have anticipated this. She walks over to the haversack deposited beneath the window then withdraws a sealed flask and a carved wooden beaker, returning to her seat. Their eyes connect briefly as Coco unscrews the flask lid and pours out a pale orange liquid to the cup’s halfway point.

“Chilled chamomile tea with orange blossom, ginger and honey,” she tells him in gentle reassurance. As the man reaches out to take it, Coco watches the violent trembling of his hand with abject sympathy. He must be so very tired, even now. She can’t imagine how he must feel waking up in a strange room with little recollection of recent days. Her own hand moves forward and then Coco feels a flash of sensation – a minute touch of clammy skin on hers – just before the world is torn asunder. Darkness soaks all around, tainting the air as it enfolds her consciousness. Panic. Fear. Realisation. Memory.

This is the beginning of an Echo vision; a subconscious state in which those gifted with Hydaelyn’s blessing can see, feel and hear reverberations of someone’s soul. In this transposed reality dreams, recollections of past events, strong sensations and encapsulated world states all exist in perfect clarity to be vicariously lived by another.

Coco’s vision is blackness dotted with pinpricks of light streaming by at impossible speeds. Dusky purple vapour trails stream out behind her metaphysical body – no, that of her host – as she falls in perpetual night. Silent panic leaks through into her own cognisance within this place as a direct effect of her host’s raw emotional state. There is no processing of feelings here in an Echo; no diluting of facts to save face or fictional bravado. Just what is and has been; pure lucid truth. She can’t move, being restricted by what he remembers; how this particular moment in time was experienced. For now, Coco is trapped until this particular vision runs its course and sets her free.

All-consuming blackness lightens to a soft powder grey stained with duskier hues – steel and pearly oyster, the neutral sheen of a herring’s scales merging to form blankets of fluffy cloud. But they’re below instead of above, with the immaculate spread of the Black Shroud’s verdant canopy forming skies here instead. Every familiar landmark Coco can recall is visible as a tiny speck upon the horizon, glimpsed through eyes that are burning dry and hot with an already turbulent headache. The velocity at which her host is falling astounds Coco, imparting an inevitability of crushing death should it continue unabated.

She senses that exact terror within him – a sick feeling of approaching doom fenced in by an ephemeral thread of hope that this is all just some nightmare. It has to be, right? How could this possibly be real? And yet that looming peril blossoms. Cold wind streaks past their joined form and tears warm breath from their lungs, stinging both eyes shut in fear and loathing. Coco hears rather than feels the final impact, numbed as her host’s senses are in his delirium. At first it’s innocent like a dry rustle of leaves in autumn, scattering as you dive into a pile of them, but then comes the pain. Sudden flaring agony in their flank, torn flesh nipped by open air and emptiness as shock steals the last remaining breath from out of their sore lungs.

Drifting in a timeless lull, Coco perceives herself detaching from her host’s raw and visceral misery. Cold and wet fingers slither along his spine. Pain needles in a million different places. Hot blood is leaking out of some wound, abandoning him for a better chance at life. She feels that final sigh threaded with exhaustion and drowns in his surrender – that inescapable truth of knowing you’re going to die alone and terrified. The moment he falls comatose, Coco is blessedly free and tossed back into the real physical world.

The Echo's habitual aftershock of headache – like a molten brand rammed into her skull – causes Coco to groan and shut her eyes tight. Swimming in blind vertigo, she focuses onto a single entity as an anchor for her consciousness : the rain outside. Time has mellowed it down into one of those effervescent showers the Black Shroud is famous for, like powdered sugar softness upon one's skin; beading cool and fresh as scintillating tiny glass baubles; a calm and quenching sanctuary.

When Coco eventually opens her eyes, she finds herself centred on the stranger's frosted pools of aquamarine. Even so deep in convalescence they're sharp with intelligence and contrast against the milk-white paleness of his skin. Genuine concern lines the man's features, set into a rounded face like that of a typical Midlander; a Hyuran man, alike and yet different.

“Is everything okay?” he asks with a slight frown. Coco glances down to the empty wooden cup in his hand and refills it for him, concentrating on recapturing some essence of composure. Everything feels like a diffused mist of sensations and lazy movements after that powerful vision. She nods to appease him and watches as he drains all of the chamomile tea in one long draw. The third cupful is consumed in careful sips, rationed out into the rise and fall of that beaker shaking in his hand.

“You have the Echo too,” Coco whispers incredulously. She almost doesn’t believe it herself but it’s an undeniable feeling; a benevolent warmth wrapping itself around her heart and imparting true knowledge straight into her brain. It would be impossible otherwise. How could a man from another world understand what she’s saying without it? No, it’s that lightness of spirit so keenly associated with Hydaelyn and Her blessing. Coco has only ever experienced this once before and it had been on that fateful night of star showers. To this day it remains one of the most pivotal moments in this woman’s life. Would this be another such ordeal to derail her existence as that evening had so determinately?

“Thank you for the tea, Coco. It was wonderfully refreshing.” The stranger’s eyes are studying her with keen interest. There’s an almost academic edge to his examination, wandering onto her pointed Elezen ears and over each of Coco’s features, down onto her hands clutching the flask of liquid against her midriff. He stops, almost as if he’s suddenly remembered it’s impolite to stare. “You must be wondering just who you dragged out of that forest and if you shouldn’t throw him back in there, aren’t you.” They smile at each other timidly. “You’re certain everything’s okay? You blacked out for a while.”

“I’m fine.” Coco reaches across to take the empty beaker, careful not to touch his hand again. It would hardly do to fall prey to yet another Echo vision so soon after the first harrowing instalment. That he’s even alive after the ordeal she’d witnessed is a miracle, but the stranger appears much restored after her gift of chilled herbal infusion. A light blush is even beginning to colour both pale cheeks. “So who are you?” Coco asks, thrumming with curiosity.

“Right. Sorry.” A nervous laugh laced with fatigue and then, “My concentration is all … over the place. I’m Hope.”

“Your name is Hope?” Coco ponders out loud, repressing the urge to laugh too. He nods concisely and offers a gentle smile. The sheer irony of that name after everything they’d gone through to save him. Whole evenings had hinged on that very concept of hoping for a workable solution; filled with nothing more than faith and determination shaped into one shared purpose. And now it’s sitting right here, materialised into a living breathing man whose mere presence lifts all of that dead weight of desperation from Coco’s shoulders.

But Hope is weakening now. She can perceive darkness crowding around those oceanic eyes and see the effort being poured into simply staying awake for her benefit. Guilt clutches at Coco’s chest. He should be resting, of course, and not having to tolerate her sub-par bedside manner. That aquamarine gaze follows as she rises from the chair and shoulders the haversack, glancing over one shoulder at him.

“You must be very hungry.” Coco states, already picturing a hearty vegetable soup with pieces of salted bacon and a slab of freshly-baked wholemeal bread. Hot and filling comfort food would soon correct that lethargy with a curative swiftness.

“I’m starving,” Hope admits with the faintest of smiles. Exhaustion owns him in this place of recuperation and silent slumber; wreathed around his neck like a noose.

Coco stares down at the oak panelled floor and wonders. Perhaps she can weave her own kind of alchemy now that Lhei has done her job – red meat replacing a saline solution, gravy instead of solvents, and a similar, yet also very different, mixture of herbs. But when she reaches that beautiful olive wood door and turns around to tell him, Hope is already fast asleep.


	6. « The Mirror Planks – The Central Shroud, Eorzea │ day eight »

A true man of science, Hope Estheim never has invested much stock into unworkable daydreams or wild notions of fantasy. His modus operandi is, by default, to collect evidence in a sound and efficient manner then form a conclusion based on solid data. Academic self-discipline and a personal culpability to avert apocalypses hadn’t allowed time for make-believe. But sequestered so long in Elysian’s recovery room, Hope could do nothing but think – over and over again – about his current predicament. No matter the approach, every scenario ends up at the same illogical outcome : that he’s no longer on Pulse.

Several pieces of irrefutable evidence stand to substantiate that claim. First of all, Hope knows the cold efficiency of fal'Cie terraformers all too well. They would never allow such a magnificent forest to exist without a pre-defined purpose. Nothing so natural and non-conforming would endure as part of fal'Cie experiments because even sentient machines see no value in aesthetics. To an unfeeling core of logical deduction, abstract concepts are defunct. Beauty doesn’t exist and conscience hinders true progress; free will is a human illusion and life is a flawed construct lacking structure. Everything should be part of an established whole else it’s discarded, recycled into constituent parts to be used elsewhere.

Second on the list is the disparity between Hope’s knowledge and his current surroundings. Given the supposition that this is Pulse under the influence of a paradox, it would still retain most obvious familiarities. Temporal and spacial paradoxes warp the world around them, very true, but they do so according to strict patterns and established rules. Too great a variance causes local space-time to become unstable and eventually tear. Introduce too many changes to the original and they’ll reverberate along time, fracturing the stability upon which that dimension is based.

This place, wherever it is, defies that with each new discovery. Every single aspect of this world Hope has thus far witnessed is beyond anything he recognises from Pulse. The sheer scale of divergence would have upset the balance long ago. By logic, this natural paradise couldn’t ever be a paradox because it’s just too improbable.

And yet equally unbelievable is the incredible draw of this place. Seated at the base of a towering pagoda by one of the forest’s great lakes, Hope closes his eyes and breathes in the sensations. Earthy perfumes of the wood are layered upon a background note of open water and damp stone; the former lapping upon shore several metres away. Light conversation and laughter float along on a fresh breeze warmed by the afternoon sunshine. His fingers brush the heavy twill of the padded seat beneath him and he exhales, the dryness in his throat catching. After the bout of painful coughing Hope holds a hand to his chest, feeling soreness burn within. Chest infections are persistent without antibiotics and vaccines, it seems.

Academia’s healthcare would have soothed that ailment in less than a day. Here though, it’s left to herbal poultices and watery concoctions bolstered with Hope’s own robust immune system; artificially cultivated by Cocoon fal'Cie over generations, of course. Perhaps in some sardonic twist of fate they’d actually saved Hope’s life and he wouldn’t have survived without them. _Ironic isn’t it_ , he muses and glances down at his hands, contemplative upon that very notion. _The one single thing in existence I hate and it’s complicit in helping me stay alive, fending off another world’s pathogens_.

Hope Estheim would never thank a fal'Cie for anything after all he’d been through, but it’s good to breathe in this fresh forest air right now. That much he can’t deny. Casting a newly-appreciative eye over his surroundings, he stands up slowly and uses the pagoda’s nearest pillar for support. The lakeside district appears to be a trading post based on the abundance of packing crates and piles of burlap sacks strewn around. Wooden barrels serve as both containers of goods and makeshift seats, whilst people gather around various carts laden with all manner of produce. Quiet harmony suffuses the atmosphere.

By the water’s edge stands the one recognisable person in this bustling lakeside area – Elysian’s raven-haired leader, Pahn'a Epocan. He’s talking to a svelte blonde woman almost two feet taller, her pointed ears protruding from a crop of mustard coloured hair hemmed under a straw hat. Summary inspection would indicate that she’s the same race as Coco, Hope’s well-timed saviour. If only he hadn’t fallen asleep when she’d come to visit, then perhaps he could have asked more questions. That soup she’d left in a ceramic flask on the bedside table had been amazing though. So rich and full of flavour.

Resolved to thank Coco for her kindness in addition to saving his life, Hope feels that’s the very least he can do. Maybe there’s some way he can repay that debt, but how does one reimburse the gift of continuance? There’ll be something, surely. Hope’s injured thigh aches as he takes a tentative step forward, quickly sitting back down again to forestall the sudden pain. He watches Pahn'a conclude business and head towards the pagoda, face buried in a stack of papers. There’s another glaring fact contrary to this being a paradox – Gran Pulse never had an articulate human and cat hybrid race.

“Fresh air making a difference, Silver?” Elysian’s leader inquires cordially, sitting down on the pagoda’s circular sofa seat. He pulls a pencil from behind his left ear and begins to check items on a list, leafing through various requisition orders.

“Very much so,” Hope replies with an affected cheerfulness. Negativity of any kind would be poor recompense for Elysian’s continued support during his convalescence. No, that wouldn’t do. “Thank you for allowing me to accompany you today.”

“Hardly makes a difference to me.” Pahn'a shrugs half-heartedly and licks a finger to separate two sheets of paper. An errant flock of small colourful birds spirals over the lake then, twittering in shrill tones. “It’s not like you’re in the way out here.”

Inwardly frustrated at the barbed comment, Hope casts his attention out over the river. Sunlight coruscates atop its flat surface like a miniature sun in the mid-afternoon atmosphere. That crushing handicap of knowing he’s a burden to Elysian and their way of life deeply troubles Hope. Had there been another, more suitable option he’d gladly accept it with open arms. As it unfortunately happens, he is forced to rely on Elysian’s continued benevolence whilst he lounges around their house eating all of their food and using up their cistern of clean water each day. It’s maddeningly destitute behaviour.

With lack of evidence to the contrary, Hope surmises this is the reason Pahn'a treats him with a large dose of disdain. Nothing else would explain the standoffish gestures and haughty language, or that cool attitude of scowls and covert stares. Would it? Hope himself is no amateur with people, on a professional level at least. Part of his remit as Director involves various social interactions and the reading of body language, countering effectively with a suitable stance taught by lengthy oration lessons. How he'd hated those, but like all knowledge it has a specific use. He decides to perform an experiment.

“Have you received any news from Coco at all?” Hope asks, keeping his stare focused on the water’s edge and carefully noting Pahn'a in his peripheral vision. The man stills almost immediately. There’s a sound of papers being stuffed away hastily and Elysian’s leader stands abruptly, striding away to the pagoda’s edge. _He’s upset_ , Hope notes. _But why?_

“Not yet, no.” That jet black tail is swaying like an irritated viper. “Something I can help you with in her absence, Silver?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. We hardly had a chance to talk before Coco left, that’s all. I’d been hoping to ask about the circumstances of that day in the forest, what happened to me and how she managed to find me out there. If it hadn’t been for her timely intervention, Lhei’s healing talents and your continued kindness, then I’d surely be dead right now.” Hope pauses to catch his breath, feeling that rake of rusty talons across both lungs once more. “Thank you, Pahn'a. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me with heartfelt gratitude.”

And he truly means that last statement. Part of his resolve in getting physically fit is based on a desire to repay this debt, somehow. Hope is determined to find a way. He always had confronted by adversity, after all.

“Me?” Pahn'a laughs with a gruff tone. “The sum total of my involvement consists of tossing you into a flatbed cart and having my chocobo Keroberos drag it home. Lhei slaved night and day to keep you alive. And Coco – ” the feline man stops mid-conversation and sighs in resignation, his tail drooping down impotently. “Well, Coco did everything else necessary.”

“Such as?” Hope asks. Perhaps knowing will better outline just how much he owes that kind-hearted woman.

“Everything.” One word, spoken through what sounds like gritted teeth. “She poured her heart and soul into your dilemma. It would be crass of me to list off just what Coco went through, but suffice it to say I worried for her sanity at one point. It all worked out though, didn’t it? Otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting here subjecting me to these inquisitions.”

Hope looses a sigh borne of guilt. He’d spent a lifetime avoiding being a burden to anyone again and history had repeated itself – three-fold, in this particular instance. Gentle sounds of forest life fill out the gap in their conversation, that lilting softness of birdsong so endemic to this environment but merely a distant memory to Hope. Academia doesn’t have such charming little creatures and Cocoon only did to serve a ecological niche. It’s an odd – but deeply calming – sensation to hear them now.

“I owe so much,” Hope muses quietly, glancing past Pahn'a at the waterline rippling in a light breeze.

“No. Not to her.” Bold yellow eyes stare at him intently like beacons in the night, fixated almost instantly as Pahn'a whirls around. “Coco is an intrinsically complicated woman. Very honourable and pure-hearted. She will never demand you repay anything because it’s simply what she does. That unthinking drive to save innocent lives is hers as a true paladin.”

“You’re worried about her.” It’s a conclusion, based on available evidence and calculated carefully as any scientist does.

“What kind of friend would I be otherwise?” Pahn'a snaps, his fur bristling. He sighs and rakes a hand through tufted jet black hair, glancing away. “You actually remind me of her. All of these incessant questions and that shared need to understand everything, no matter the consequence. Look Silver, I appreciate how misplaced you must be feeling right now but I don’t have answers for you. Coco certainly will but we don’t have the slightest clue when she’ll be back.”

“I apologise,” Hope states honestly. He hadn’t meant to push that hard with his line of interrogation. “Is there anything that I can do to help in the meantime? Please let me know, Pahn'a. I hate imposing on yourself and Elysian.”

Pahn'a faces him and stares with unwavering intent. “No. Don’t fret overmuch. Just pace yourself and concentrate on healing, because if Coco returns to find I’ve caused you grief and more injury she will flay my hide.”

And then he’s leaving, striding out of the pagoda and off towards the lakeside harbour where their boat is moored. As an afterthought Pahn'a stops and calls over his shoulder, “We’re departing soon. Give yourself time to head back to the ferry.”

Glancing over to where the raven-haired man had been sitting earlier, Hope sees there’s a leather-bound book on the seat. It’s embossed in gold leaf with the title: “Adventuring for Beginners – Eorzean Edition”. It seems odd that Pahn'a would carry such a thing, being a long-established leader of adventurers himself, but then Hope realises he’d left it on purpose. Judging how their conversation had flowed there hadn’t really been an opportunity to present it otherwise.

Surprised at the unexpected gesture, Hope smiles. Perhaps there’s still a chance they can get along, provided he doesn’t launch any more psychological experiments. Stroking his fingertips over the first open page his memories unconsciously float back to Cocoon. So acclimatised to a world where written material wouldn’t exist without technology, Hope had forgotten how actual paper feels : soft and textured, physically real. All of Academia’s technical documents – their blueprints and printed schematics – are manufactured from a pliable form of plastic, easy to recycle and produce on demand.

But recalling Academia and even Cocoon in such nostalgic fashion ushers back the frustration. That undercurrent of a migraine thrums at Hope’s brain once more as he wonders. This world – though endlessly beautiful and surpassing Pulse in sheer terms of geographical scale – is so very foreign to a man deeply rooted in logical fact. Science, mathematics and physics almost don’t exist here in the same way. Maybe he’ll have to learn them all over again.

Burdened with that notion, Hope wonders if he’ll ever acclimate to the world shift. Questions harry his consciousness, eating away at that confidence in his own proven ability to ration out common sense. Could he find a way home? Is he stuck here no matter what? Would he abandon everything he’d worked for in Academia, tirelessly driven towards atonement and the need to save his citizens from apocalypse?

Only time will tell, and for that particular abstract concept, Hope doesn’t have the greatest of affections.


	7. « Bronze Lake – Upper La Noscea, Eorzea │ day ten »

Speeding through Bronze Lake’s picturesque floodplains astride her chocobo, Coco is enjoying the fresh tropical air. Each jolt of Rhongo’s pace evaporates the mounted tension heaped upon her shoulders over the past three days, most of it spent traversing deep jungle paths. Now she’s out in the open, a refreshing breeze courses through the gaps in Coco’s serpentskin leather armour and cools the clammy flesh beneath it. There’s still that hot stickiness of Vylbrand’s sun-baked climate to contend with, but at least she’s free from that insufferable boor of a man.

Taken at face value the job had seemed a perfect transition back into adventuring for Coco. A senior carpenter of Gridania’s Oak Atrium required escort to a promising new lumber mill out in Eastern La Noscea and had petitioned the Twin Adders for a suitable candidate. Normally avoiding such contracts, Coco had signed up before that fateful trip into Crimson Bark. She hadn’t anticipated a pitched battle between her own curiosity and that stoic sense of obligation, yet Hope’s awakening had stirred one into being. Duty had won by a narrow margin. Despite every tumultuous event in this woman’s life so far she’s always held firm to that central tenet of adventuring success – reputation.

No adventurer will get far without it and for free paladins – who rely on sworn oaths and strong protective instincts – it’s even more important. But Coco had reasoned that given several days to rest up Hope would be willing to talk. If he actually is from another world, then it stands to reason he’ll be curious about Eorzea too. Perhaps they can learn from each other.

And so Coco’s reintroduction into adventuring life had comprised a wholly uneventful trek through dense jungle foliage. The lumber mill itself was situated in the literal middle of nowhere, little more than a woodshed and several small shacks hemmed in by a hastily-erected fence. Unrelenting humidity and the constant buzz of midge-like vilekin hadn’t even been the worst part. No, that honour had belonged entirely to Coco’s client – a remarkably abrasive carpenter named Seigeury.

Unfortunately he’d been one of those old jaded relics who believes that the Twelveswood’s chosen are Eorzea’s finest people and everyone else is a miscreant of varying degree. Coco had walked ahead of the wagon, scanning either side of the path for ambush and had to listen to endless monologues about how foreigners shouldn’t be allowed into Gridania or how their influence had tainted the forest’s quiet sanctity. Perhaps Seigeury’s ilk had been part of the reason Sylvain Delouix left to find a new home. According to ancient history, the Elezen themselves aren’t originally from the Black Shroud and so all of that carpenter’s embittered diatribe had been an ignorant mess.

Breathing in lush tropical air as it caresses her face, Coco wonders how Seigeury hadn’t picked up on her Sharlayan accent. Maybe he had. It wouldn’t have been wise to condemn his protector so far from the sanctuary of civilisation now, would it? Still, none of that is important right now. Duty is well and truly behind this paladin, reduced to mere memories and a remuneration awaiting her at the Adders’ Nest. It had almost been worth the four days away from home. Easing both eyes closed, Coco loops Rhongo’s rein loosely around one wrist and allows him to lead, relaxing into the saddle. Camp Bronze Lake lies at the end of a straight path and he knows the route from prior visits.

A short while later they’re passing a gate guard and heading into camp. Permeated by so many hot springs, the air here is saturated with the scent of heated rock as steam spirals upwards in lazy whorls. Having being constructed around the original landscape, Camp Bronze Lake’s buildings are of a uniform dark mahogany treated to withstand constant humidity. The water is of a beautiful aquamarine hue so typical of tropical locales, pristine and perfect like stained glass. _Hope’s eyes are the same colour_ , Coco remarks silently without a thread of conscious thought.

Shaking her head free of that notion, she dismounts Rhongo and leads him over to a hitching post, fastening the leather rein around it in a loose knot. With good fortune they won’t be staying long and should make the last Aleport ferry to Limsa by seven tonight. Coco scales the steps up to the Warmwine Sanatorium and glances around, somewhat surprised at the absence of people. They’re usually outdoors and enjoying the naturally heated water this place is famous for, but there’s hardly anyone in sight. Perhaps the recent murder of that Roegadyn adventurer had made everyone too cautious, but what if it’s more sinister than that and the killer actually lives here, sheltered by the camp’s inhabitants? That doesn’t bode well.

Inquisitive by nature, Coco is strolling a circuit of the camp several minutes later whilst holding a tankard of fresh pineapple juice, her eyes taking in every pertinent detail. The handful of patrons convalescing around the area aren’t too enthusiastic about being interrupted with questions, but she is never going to find answers without ruffling a few feathers. Had they witnessed anything strange? Caught sight of suspicious individuals or overheard telling conversations? Their answer is always the same negative affirmation. No-one had reason to suspect and besides, so many adventurers pass through Bronze Lake on a daily basis that it’s hard to tell who’s who in such a place.

After approaching one woman sitting at an oaken table, Coco follows the same line of investigation more out of habit than any hope of finding answers. What could one curious paladin do when Eorzea’s authorities have failed to achieve a result?

“Ain’t ‘eard nowt.” The burly woman drains half a warmwine bottle and wipes a hand across her mouth. Her terrain of creamy olive skin is marred with countless scars, some faint and long since healed, but there’s a jagged rift travelling from one ripped ear right down to her collarbone. Flinty eyes regard Coco as she surreptitiously examines the wound and glances back up, wondering what could have made it.

“Kobol’ almos’ did for me,” the Roegadyn offers in explanation. “Ambush in Iron Lake as we was escortin’ a party back. Clawed me face an’ neck sommat fierce. Anyroad, ‘fraid I can’t ‘elp ye much. At leas’ I dun think so.”

“One single clue may be all that’s needed to find the culprit,” Coco states quietly and sits down upon the opposite log stool, taking a sip of pineapple juice. “I’m just an adventurer looking into matters with a curious interest. My name is – ”

“Aye, I know who ye are, lass. Name’s Rhotwyda and I’m a Storm Private for Red Swallows at Camp Overlook. Ordered t’ convalesce else I’d be back scalpin’ me some ratmen.” Rhotwyda swirls the bottle slowly then downs the remaining alcohol in one pull, resettling her gaze back onto Coco. “One o’ Rhylaren’s pals, ain’t ye. I remember tha’ fiery 'air an’ the shiny sword an’ shield, come t’ visit us Swallows at camp a while back.”

“That was almost a year ago,” Coco states, remembering the balmy summer evening Elysian had sent a small troop out to do reconnaissance. She’d accompanied them to watch over a potential new recruit. “But I don’t believe we’ve formally met.”

“So it were. An’ no we ain’t but Rhylaren and I go way back.” Rhotwyda pauses to lay the bottle flat and spin it slowly, almost seeking a distraction. “Was me first love an’ I never got over 'im so any pretty lass I see 'round 'im … ye know,” she sighs.

Feeling somewhat awkward, Coco pushes the conversation back on track. “Oh. So, ah. Could you tell me about the attack?”

“Ey lass? Oh righ’. Well ain’t tha’ much to tell. On accoun’ o’ me injuries I di'nt put much stock in it. Concussion.” Rhotwyda points to the fresh bandages wrapped around her head in thick swaths. “But I’ve been seein’ shadows 'ere an’ there, lurkin’ in doorways, roun’ side o’ buildings. Tha’ kinda thing. Prob'ly seein’ ghosts an’ all tha’ but make o’ it what ye will.”

Retrieving her journal from the haversack slung over her shoulder, Coco lays it flat upon the table and begins to take notes. She writes the date, approximate time and place, then a summary of the people she’d questioned and information learned thus far – which is admittedly not much at all. Whoever had perpetrated the crime had apparently done so with undue determination in not being caught and leaving no noticeable trail. There’s still the possibility of local collusion, which she jots down in the margins. After sketching Rhotwyda’s portrait for reference, Coco thanks the injured soldier for her assistance.

“Dun mention it,” Rhotwyda says and waves a hand in dismissal. “Let’s 'ope ye can stop any more lives bein’ lost, aye?”

“Not a great deal to go on, but I’ll hand a copy of my notes over to the Maelstrom and Adders both. Perhaps they’ll find something useful in them.” A sudden thought enters Coco’s mind and she scribbles down Elysian’s address on a journal page, tears it out neatly and slides it across the tabletop to the Roegadyn woman. Rhotwyda stops tinkering with the bottle and angles her head around to gaze upon it, scowling.

“If you see anything suspicious or there’s anything we can do to help, please let me know.” Coco smiles amiably, watching the soldier’s eyebrows raise up in surprise. “Oddly enough, this is also where Rhyl is living now. You should get in contact and ask how he’s doing, because I recall him mentioning how much he misses the sea and everyone he had to leave behind.”

Rhotwyda’s mouth downturns into a pout and she fingers the piece of paper tenderly, almost like it’s from her lost love himself. “Thank ye, lass. Ain’t too good wiv me letters like, but I’ll give it a go. Ye’ve a kind 'eart for a fores’ dweller.”

Taking that last part as a compliment, Coco heads back down the white basalt steps to Bronze Lake’s central plaza. Eorzea isn’t without its fair share of prejudice and most everyone suffers from it equally. Lominsans are branded illiterate pirates just as Gridanians enjoy their reputation as priggish tree lovers; Ul'dahn men and women are labelled as obsessed with material gain, although that is more firmly grounded in reality than one might expect. Coco runs a hand through Rhongo’s snowy plumage and smiles to herself, confident that no-one knows what to say about Sharlayan folk since they’d left the Eorzean mainland seventeen years ago. Stuffy scholars or know-it-alls, perhaps. Even cold-hearted deserters.

Just more subtext she’ll have to explain to silver-haired Hope when they next meet. It’s entirely possible he’s from a far-flung corner of Hydaelyn and not another world, making Coco’s fanciful dreaming just that. But what if it isn’t? What if Hope represents something far greater; an unfathomable enigma and actual solid proof there are more places like Hydaelyn out there; somehow, somewhere. In her excitement, Coco wants to believe that. There is no other explanation for all of these new languages and letters sitting comfortably in her consciousness right now, after all. Hope must feel this trepidation too.

Rhongo takes the off-road route through Oakwood, traversing small pockets of jungle that contain anything but the eponymous species of tree meant to be thriving here. Instead there are orange and lemon treasure troves, sequoia clusters surrounded by spiralling ferns, and settled-in migrants from the Cieldalaes : banana, pineapple and broad-leafed shrubs carpeting the loamy ground. Shallow streams of waterfall run-off snake throughout the area like a spider’s web of life to these plants, sustaining growth despite the oft mercurial weather of Vylbrand. Whether gripped by electrical storm or blazing hot sunshine, rain isn’t always forthcoming here – especially after the Calamity’s cataclysmic impact upon the land.

Detecting a loud shout to her left, Coco eases back on the reins and slows Rhongo to a canter. She nudges him through dense undergrowth towards the sound of voices ahead, weaving between trunks of fruit trees covered in a rainbow of orchids. But a ten-fulm tall chocobo makes a lot of noise ambling through close-knit jungle as he snaps fallen branches and parts heavy foliage. Coco is forced to slide out of the saddle softly and pull Rhongo’s head down towards her, whispering a stay command before she departs. Right hand curled around her ornate sword Almace’s hilt, she follows the voices to their source through an obstacle course of horizontal deadwood and snare-like twisty vines.

Just beyond is a large clearing. Three Maelstrom grand company men stand in a group opposite a single Mamool Ja cowering into a ball. Animosity chokes the damp-soaked air in this space, already condensed into a thick and tense atmosphere.

“Listen good! I ain’t asking again, scaleface.” A burly Roegadyn man dressed in an officer’s field uniform stands at the forefront clutching a harpoon in one hand. “My associate here will loosen your tongue then,” he sneers unkindly.

Three sounds are compressed into one – bowstring, flight and thudding impact – then a brightly fletched arrow is rocking with sudden momentum in the ground by the cowering lizard-man’s claws. It happens so unexpectedly fast that Coco’s heart skips a beat and she only just stifles a gasp.

“Last chance,” the Roegadyn grins maliciously, that harpoon looming ever closer to the lizard-man’s quivering brown hide.

Hidden beneath the darkened shade of a massive fern, Coco evaluates the battlefield with precision. There’s one victim crouched upon the floor faced with three aggressors : two Roegadyn melée fighters and a Hyuran archer lurking in the background. Coco can comfortably hold off both the lancer and that slow-moving marauder, but ranged attackers are a paladin’s worst nightmare. That Midlander won’t hesitate to aim directly at her head whilst she’s distracted with parries and counter-attacks. Properly trained bowmen never do. Not an ideal situation, but she can’t allow an individual to suffer.

Unhooking Ancile from its holster on her back, Coco sets the shield onto her left arm and takes a steadying breath. This is a passive combat stance – not openly baring arms but able to rapidly shift into a defensive position should need arise. Prickly nerves worry at her insides. Despite every battle she’s taken part in, the most daunting part is still that confrontational opener. _Casual but confident_ , Coco intones within her mind. _Be strong and alert. Don’t let them bait you into attacking first_. She takes one long step out of shadows and into the late afternoon sunshine pouring into the clearing. Every pair of eyes instantly relocates its focal point onto her face.

“Good afternoon,” she greets cheerfully, forcing an artificial friendliness into her voice. Anxiety pulsates within Coco’s chest but she fixes her gaze on the officer, keeping that archer well within her peripheral vision. “Is there some sort of problem here I can help to mediate?” Almost instantly the Midlander nocks an arrow. _Fantastic, a trigger-happy bowman. That’s surely going to make it easier to come out of this alive_ , she broods and tries to summon in a sense of calm.

“Who in the seven hells are you?” the beefy Maelstrom officer says, walking around in a semi-circle and stopping at Coco’s sword arm. Unlike the paladin’s passive stance that’s an overtly aggressive gesture meant to put her on guard – directly facing the unprotected side of her body and widening her field of view. Standard buccaneering tactics. “And what do you care about some scabby flea-bitten lizard? You don’t belong here, rabbit.” The final word is spat with pure disdain.

Coco allows the racist barb to float over her, instead breathing like she’d been taught and evacuating tension with each separate breath. “Call it professional curiosity, but I’m wondering what three Maelstrom personnel are doing here, threatening a single Mamool Ja native out in deep jungle. There must be a simple explanation, surely.”

Silence cloaks the tropical glade like a shroud then with a tension so thick and cloying it could grease baking trays. Grinning like a mad fool, the officer just stands there brandishing his harpoon whilst the other Roegadyn – a grey-skinned man with a broadaxe strapped to his back – folds both massive biceps across his bulging chest.

“No? Since none of you are forthcoming I don’t have much choice.” Not daring to turn away from the armed group, Coco speaks softly in the lizard-man’s general direction. “Go ahead. Tell me what happened in your native language please.”

After a tense lull filled with only sounds of tropical birdsong, words spill forth from the Mamool Ja’s mouth. With no prior experience with Mamook other than knowing of its existence, Coco hears the testimony automatically translated into plain Eorzean by her Echo’s blessing. The accent is still guttural and rough, spoken with a thick tongue that clambers over words.

“You. You’re one of the Chosen?” the lizard-man’s voice drawls, “These men. Want to know where we live. Want to destroy the village and burn crops and slaughter hatchlings. Followed me from the river close by. I was careless. Got caught and – ”

Lightning-fast movement blurs and Coco instinctively throws her shield arm around, parrying the harpoon’s thrust with a moment’s notice. One foe having being disabled temporarily, she searches for the archer. He’s right there; slinking into shade by the treeline and aiming a shot. There’s a split-second to act and then Coco lunges, bracing Ancile tight in her grip for impact. Unsheathing her sword she calls out to the Mamool Ja, demands he retreat into the woods, and then hears the strident ring of metal on metal. One arrow nullified. A brief window of opportunity opens then.

Remembering those gladiatorial lessons, she takes in a deep breath and reacts rapidly. _He has five seconds to re-draw. Count them!_ Another incoming attack from the harpoon threatens, aimed low this time. _Four_. She parries it, using momentum to glide it over Ancile’s upper surface. _Three_. Coco snaps her sword arm downwards and drives the blunt end of Almace’s pommel into the officer’s midriff. _Two_. He recoils and staggers, the harpoon clattering harmlessly to the ground. _One!_ The razor edge of Coco’s sword is at his throat, poised to kill.

“Don’t even think about it,” she growls at the Midlander with an antagonistic edge. For a flickering moment it seems like he’ll take the shot and then he stops mid-pull, holding up a hand in surrender and tossing the bow aside. The marauder hasn’t even moved from his original position and is standing there with a deadpan gawk plastered onto his face. Some fine contribution to the battle he’d been.

“You wouldn’t dare kill me,” a voice at the end of Almace laughs gruffly. Despite his precarious situation the Maelstrom officer has at last deigned to speak. “Paladins are always so predictable. Too caught up in justice and doing what’s right to off someone properly. You’d be an oath breaker, little Miss Rabbit Ears.”

“Oh, would I now?” Coco snaps. “You see, my oath is to protect the innocent and that’s certainly not you in this case. There are worse things than death and, unless you want to risk finding out what they are, get over there. Now.”

Kicking the officer’s abandoned harpoon away with force, she bristles with rage at their blatant guilt. How dare that fool attack her unprovoked? But their behaviour fits the stereotype, of course. It’s a spineless bully’s methodology; subvert and subdue. What Coco doesn’t understand is why three men in Maelstrom uniform would be out here, hunting down lone individuals in the jungle. Grand companies just don’t operate that way. This has to be a personal grudge. None of it makes sense unless you take the most basal explanation – hatred, pure and simple. With the Lominsans’ extensive history of slaughtering their own people, breaking observed treaties and inciting genocide, Coco doesn’t know how they dare.

“Now, I believe the best outcome is for everyone involved to go their separate way and forget this ever happened. Wouldn’t you agree?” she states rhetorically, secretly hoping no-one decides to call her bluff. Her shoulder is beginning to ache with a dull throb and it’s doubtful Coco would be able to fend all three men off. Impacting with that Roegadyn had felt like straight-punching a mountain. Lesson well and truly learned : no more neglecting one’s physical condition during an adventuring break. The impasse continues unabated for a while with no-one willing to make that first conceding move of defeat.

“This ain’t the last you’ve heard of us, bitch,” the red-faced officer spits eventually. “Let’s shove off, lads. Our day will come.”

 _Valiant words for one so easily beaten_ , Coco muses and looses a silent breath of relief, watching them slink off into darkness beneath the mangrove cluster. She remains inert for a while, listening for any telltale sounds of them doubling back through the undergrowth but it’s all deathly still. Only the cool air of looming twilight pervades upon the clearing; its soft blue shroud beginning to cover a sunset sky resplendent in oranges and dusky pinks.

Keeping Almace drawn, Coco heads off to find Rhongo where she’d left him surrounded by the fruit trees. Navigating a vine-strewn carpet of uneven ground in the dark isn’t exactly easy, but she eventually finds the chocobo squatting down half-asleep. A scattering of stripped branches and nipped-off leaves betray his opportunistic snacking. Despite the tension she laughs softly and hugs her feathered white steed. If they’re going to catch that ferry, they’ll need to recoup lost time and travel fast. The icing on today’s cake would be spending another night on one of those horribly rigid beds these seafaring Lominsans seem so fond off. With a laboured sigh, Coco urges a sleepy Rhongo upwards and vaults into the saddle.

True to form, her beloved destrier gets them to Aleport just in time. The boat to Limsa Lominsa is docked and waiting, gently listing on a sea at high tide. _We’ve finally made it. Gods, do I ever need a long sleep and a good breakfast before setting off home_ , Coco reflects internally. For one innocent moment, she wonders just what so many Yellowjackets are doing in the harbour town, but then one of them approaches her. With an arrest warrant. For an attack on a high-ranking Maelstrom officer.

Just when it seems this particular paladin is free of Vylbrand’s net, someone hauls her back in like a prize-winning tuna. They’re not done with Coco yet. Not by a long shot.


	8. « Delouix Residence, Astoria Hollow – The Lavender Beds, Eorzea │ day twelve »

An esteemed scientist in his own right, Hope never passes up an opportunity to learn something new. His current fact-finding mission has involved surreptitious questioning of Elysian members and careful information gathering from Lhei, the short but spirited healer-woman. For every ounce of bodyweight that Miqo'te lacks over her adventuring cohorts she makes up in pure zest for life. Hope enjoyed talking to her, and learning about traditional medicine and the veritable forest of ingredients they’d used to keep him alive, but he’d sought particular insight. Lhei had obliged there too. It’s the reason Hope is sitting where he is right now – waiting in a woodland garden.

Coco Delouix’s estate comprises a large plot of land upon which sits a compact two-storey house with white stucco walls and a roof seeded with tiny flowers. The garden itself is a natural paradise. There are planters filled with home-grown herbs, neat flowerbeds hemmed in by miniature picket fencing and even a hen house, expertly crafted out of an old tree stump. Its support pillars have been carved to resemble roots and the little ramp is covered in a scattering of dry hay. If it hadn’t been for the gentle clucking noise, Hope wouldn’t have known what lay within – left to guess at all manner of foreign beasts.

To an Academian man whose entire experience of housing consists of ergonomic design and mass-manufactured building materials, this is a scene straight out of a Pulsian fairytale. Every part of the estate effortlessly blends in with these natural surroundings, lush and green in abundance. At the far end of the garden several metres away there’s a full-size chocobo stable and fenced-off pen, currently being cleaned out by Coco’s steward – Anders Olsen. Hope had been wandering across the front lawn, entirely distracted by scenery, when the dark-haired man had found him. Under threat of impalement upon a pitchfork, Hope had explained the situation quickly enough and is now awaiting Coco’s return. Soon, he’d been informed.

For a while there’s merely birdsong and sounds of neighbouring households – a perfect opportunity for reflection on all that he’d learned – but then there’s a sudden loud crash of a slamming gate. His saviour herself appears like a wrathful tornado, storming into view with a saddled white chocobo dragged behind. Coco doesn’t look anything like Hope remembers in that recovery room. She’s the very personification of stress now : long auburn tresses in a voluminous tangle, clenched fists and tense posture, with a face epitomising raw indignation. After opening the pen gate roughly she turns to Anders and glowers.

“Can you believe this?” she snaps, “Look at the state of me. Thrown into a Lominsan gaol and for what? After everything I’ve done for that idiotic grand company and their murderous contempt for life except their own pathetic greed-fuelled, pirate-obsessed existence.” All of that in one single breath and Coco still manages an ire-soaked sigh. Hope regards her amusedly.

“Ser Delouix, there’s – ” Anders attempts before being interrupted.

“I mean really! If it hadn’t been for … What is it, Anders? Why are you gawking at me like an empty-headed paissa?”

“You have a guest waiting,” he mumbles, nudging his head suggestively towards the garden table. “Over there.”

“Who? Gods, I swear this torment never ends!” Coco is almost seething with rage now, her every move infused with prickled tension as she pulls the chocobo’s bridle off and throws it to the ground. But then she whirls around, and as those dark green eyes meet the awaiting scientist’s face, her whole demeanour softens instantly. “Hope … ”

“Good morning.” Despite the lingering tension he smiles amiably. “I can return later if this is inconvenient timing.”

“No. It … it’s okay,” she stutters, shoulders sagging heavily now. Exhaustion lines every part of her rounded face and a weary sigh escapes out of that parted mouth. “Let me get a shower and I’ll feel better. Anders – ” Coco turns to her steward and he nods once, apparently understanding what she’d been about to ask before disappearing into the chocobo stable.

Hope’s assessment of this being a quaint and charming fairytale is further enhanced when he’s seated at Coco’s breakfast table around fifteen minutes later. Surrounded by the homely atmosphere he actually feels calm and relaxed. Surely, the spread of refreshments on offer here puts his habitual breakfast to shame; that black coffee and grapefruit slice inadequate in direct comparison. Wedges of golden brown toast lay heaped upon a plate. There are jams and preserves, a creamy slab of butter laid down by some bowls containing fruit and what looks like oatmeal or muesli. A half-pint jug of milk joins the pitcher of pale chilled tea and white ceramic tableware – teacups, dishes and a little pot of brown sugar.

Coco herself is sitting directly opposite Hope, her auburn tresses still damp from the shower and tied into a long tail trailing down over one shoulder. His gaze is drawn to the patch of moisture soaking into her shirt; a deep shade of mauve stained darker by water dripping from Coco’s hair. As she closes both eyes and sighs exhaustedly, Hope reacquaints himself with those curved and pointed ears. There are no Elezen to be found on Pulse, merely humans in various forms.

“I’m sorry you had to see that outside.” Reaching for a piece of toast, Coco leans across the table and glances at Hope briefly. He frowns in confusion and she offers explanation with a soft smile. “I’m not often so, ah … frighteningly verbose.”

“No need to apologise for that,” Hope states and returns the gesture. Their eyes meet, holding firm in a shared stare just before his stomach rumbles with embarrassing loudness. It appears hunger won’t be held back by politeness after all.

“Help yourself to breakfast,” she says with no small amount of restrained amusement. After spreading butter over the crusty slice of bread, Coco leans back and takes a slow yet delicate bite. “I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten but it sounds like you haven’t.”

Depositing several pieces of fruit into a bowl of oats and dousing it all in milk, Hope nudges at the cereal curiously. It occurs to him right then that he doesn’t know what these berries are or if indeed this is called muesli. Do they have such things in Eorzea? Are they known by other names? He glances up, eagerly fixating on the decanter towards Coco’s end of the table. He wonders if that magical dark elixir is in there – his beloved caffeine addiction. What a welcome miracle that would be.

“It’s freshly ground coffee,” she confirms, evidently discerning the lustful stare Hope had been wearing, “And it’s from plantations in Thavnair. Not that horrible Lominsan stuff Pan pretends with. Would you like some?” Hope nods mutely, stricken temporarily speechless by the discovery. How is it that their worlds can share this too? Could there be a link?

Coco stands and pours out a healthy measure into a mug then places it down by his bowl of cereal. There’s a notable sense of nervousness in her every movement; expected if she were an Academian citizen around their famous Director, but not as the one Eorzean woman Hope had sought information on. He wonders if there’s another reason, watching her carefully with a burgeoning curiosity. Perhaps Pahn'a had been telling the truth and there’s more to Coco than she lets on; operating as some abstruse mystery within a tangle of fronts and guarded emotions. On outward inspection she doesn’t seem the sort. This is a lot more innocent and genuine. What if Coco just has a primed barrage of questions lined up like Hope himself?

Aware of the silence hanging between them, he retrieves the coffee mug and brings it close to his face, inhaling deep of that unmistakable aroma. The bittersweet taste is even better than its rich and aromatic scent, utterly obliterating what he’d always known coffee to be. How Hope would ever settle for anything from a hydroponics lab after this is beyond him.

“Ah, I missed this,” he breathes, closing his eyes to absorb the sensations. When he opens them again Coco is examining him, apparently searching Hope’s face for something telling. Her irises are dark green like hewn malachite gemstones.

“So, there’s coffee too. Wherever it is you’re from.” The tense pause between Coco’s statements coils a knot in his chest. He swallows a mouthful of dark liquid and holds her gaze, silently attempting to discern that intent. She’s a complicated mix of exhaustion and razor-sharp awareness, one arm curled around her torso defensively as she continues to eat and stare. It’s not often Hope is confronted by such mixed signals and yet she intrigues him. He finds himself needing to confirm what he’d learned about Coco from Lhei and other Elysian members; to properly understand the Elezen woman who’d saved his life.

“Indeed,” he answers cordially, deciding to bait her with some information, “I’d have wasted most of my adult life sleeping if it hadn’t been for this miraculous drink. It’s responsible for far too many late nights working at Academy headquarters.”

“Oh?” Coco muses and drops the crust of toast onto her plate. Hope notices that her eyes don’t flick downwards in submission, but sideways out of the window and back again. So she’s nervous but not intimidated by him? Interesting. She speaks again in that urbane tone. “And I’d be correct in assuming that isn’t in Eorzea, wouldn’t I?” He nods to confirm. “Nor anywhere else on Hydaelyn if I dare even suggest that. So, where are you from?”

Satisfied at having eased her inquisitive nature out into the open, Hope smiles. Quite apart from his normally serious demeanour around people, he feels like experimenting with Coco and seeing how long she’ll wait for enlightenment before hunting it down – just like he would. Where this wanton behaviour is coming from, he has no idea. Given all that she’d done for him, it should be disrespectful – insulting even – but he needs to know how alike they are in this matter. Can he trust Coco? Is either of them really prepared for what they could learn from the other? There’s only one way to find out.

After consuming several spoonfuls of fruited cereal, Hope glances up from his bowl and watches Coco as she gazes out of the window. She’s leaning back into the chair holding a glass of chilled tea, her other hand fingering the tail end of hair now relocated to the opposite shoulder. They’d told him Coco is tenacious; that she’s stubborn and unrelenting, driven, secretive and deeply intellectual; the mind of a scholar and heart of a knight contained within one single form. Freed from the yoke of apocalyptic turmoil ruling everyday life, it seems that Hope’s brain needs some other esoteric thing to fixate upon. He’d never imagined it would be a woman from another world, of all things.

Their gaze connects once more over the breakfast table’s delicious spread of food. Hope swallows hard, surprised at the sudden flutter of rapid heartbeat within and blanches. Perhaps it would be wise not to play psychological warfare with this woman. That adventuring manual left by Pahn'a had taught Hope that true paladins don’t ever yield to aggressors, of course. What chance does one scientist have with mind games? He inhales and forces composure onto his expression, pulling back a modicum of control and pretending that he isn’t affected by the way Coco is staring at him.

“I come from Academia, a metropolis of Gran Pulse,” Hope finally answers and takes another mouthful of coffee. “Before you graciously rescued me from the forest, that’s where I’d been working late at night.” He pauses, gauging her reaction thus far. “And then I find myself on a completely different world without so much as an explanation. Thank you once again, Coco.”

Hope watches the transformation of her face from behind his steaming ceramic mug and smiles. It’s like observing the wonder he’d felt upon coming to terms with that revelation himself. In some ways he still can’t believe it had happened.

“So it is true,” Coco whispers. “I mean, we suspected but … do you realise how incredible that is, Hope? It’s unprecedented.”

“Yes. I appreciate it must be,” he says quietly. There’s an allowed moment for everything to sink in and then he speaks once more. “I apologise for turning up unannounced at your home like this, but I have so many questions for you, Coco.”

“As I do for you,” she says and exhales tiredly. The shadows around her eyes darken slightly. “But I’m afraid to ask them.”

“Because of what the answers will mean?” Hope asks rhetorically. He knows. The implications are terrifying.

Coco nods and gazes down at the table, buttering another piece of toast then spreading a thin layer of honey over it. She takes a bite and chews, soon after loosing a short self-conscious laugh laced with nervousness.

“Well, that and the fact that you’ll come to regret answering them after a while.” She stares into her glass of pale tea and continues on in a thoughtful voice. “Pan says I’m far too curious. He believes I daydream about matters that have no real importance, but they do. To me, that is. Grandfather taught me that knowledge is the keystone of all life and I believe that.”

Hope smiles as he watches her, draining half of the coffee and returning to the fruit-laden cereal. “Your grandfather appears to be a very wise man. And I don’t see a problem indulging your curiosity as long as you wholeheartedly return the favour.”

“You’re sure?” she muses, quickly finishing off the piece of toast. “Okay then. What’s the first question you’d like to ask?”

“I don’t mean to impose, Coco. You look exhausted and Pahn'a informed me you’ve been abroad on a venture,” Hope says. Even now he can see the fatigue she must be experiencing as cracks in her composure and dark circles around those diminished gemlike eyes. “I really can come back later at an arranged time to suit us both. You must be tired, surely?”

“Everything you could possibly ask and you pick a mundane question like that?” Coco teases, her mouth curling up into a wry smile. She laughs again but this time with a melodious softness that Hope finds oddly endearing. Either her inhibitions are loosening due to exhaustion or that inherent nervousness is beginning to dissipate. Since he hasn’t determined the cause of the latter yet, Hope assumes it’s the former.

“I can sleep later,” Coco continues on regardless and places a hand on top of the decanter. “We have coffee, remember?” She stands and pours herself a mug – untainted with milk just as Hope takes his – and cradles it lovingly in both hands. “Would you like to know where you are right now? I still can’t believe it. There are other worlds out there, after all.”

Hope smiles at Coco’s wonder so reminiscent of his own before following her out of the dining room, through a large kitchen and into a finely decorated hallway. Up the flight of stairs and around a corner, they enter into a carpeted room lined with bookshelves. Hardback volumes of all shapes and girths fill the shelves – actual, real books made from paper and not merely passive light on a crystal display. Drawn to them, Hope walks up to one bookshelf and peers at the spines bound in leather. They’re organised alphabetically via subject matter : dessert recipes, botanical reference tomes, wildlife encyclopaedia and books on dragon lore. He turns around in a thought-filled haze only to find Coco gazing at him curiously.

 _She certainly didn’t downplay that thirst for knowledge. Look at this room_ , Hope muses. Mounted on the wall between two beautiful watercolour paintings is a large-scale map of a continental landmass; unrecognisable from the aerial scans he remembers signing a requisition order for back home. There’s a star chart on another wall, then a noticeboard filled with sketches and lists of exotic plants, locations of fishing holes and their various denizens, torn scraps of paper with reminders scribbled on them. In a corner by the window sits a large old-fashioned globe and directly opposite there’s a slender dragon statue carved from a type of marbled purple wood.

Thoroughly impressed, Hope moves towards Coco patiently awaiting his attention. Every angle of her posture insinuates a nervousness only hinted at downstairs at the breakfast table. It puzzles him immensely. Why is she so afraid?

“You certainly own a lot of books,” Hope says, immediately feeling stupid for saying that out loud.

“Knowledge is the keystone of all life. Remember?” Coco intones and glances away from him, loosing a tense breath. She walks over to a solid wooden desk set against the wall and lowers into a plush-backed chair, folding one of her long Elezen legs over the other. After picking up an oversize tome and leafing through it, she hands it over to Hope.

“So, the continent we’re on is named Aldenard and we’re currently in the realm of Eorzea. Our world, or star as the Sharlayan astromancers sometimes call it, is named Hydaelyn. That title is shared with the goddess of light widely believed to reside in the aetherial realm, the source of all aether. She’s the reason we can communicate right now, Hope.” Coco pauses and her voice resumes with a slightly elevated tone of amusement. “I’ve been speaking in Eorzean this whole time and yet you can understand every word I say despite being from another world.”

Closing the atlas carefully, Hope perches himself on the desk only a few feet away from Coco. “That’s the Echo?”

She nods, glancing away to distractedly play with her fingers. “I don’t know how … I mean, it’s not unheard of but it must be somewhat rare. This transference between us. It’s why I suspected that you were from another world, Hope. It feels … odd.”

“Transference?” he asks, frowning thoughtfully.

Coco glances up to gauge his reaction and then quickly back down again. “What’s the name of your language, back on Gran Pulse?” she asks. Hope scowls, considering that question. There hadn’t really been a distinction until Cocoon’s fall, when there had been other variations and alphabets discovered in ancient ruins upon Pulse’s surface. Language had just been implied back then when the fal'Cie controlled everything. He shrugs, saying simply that it must have been ‘Cocoon’.

“Well, that’s what you’re speaking right now because you’re used to doing so and the Echo is very new to you, but the distinction is there in our minds. I can communicate in Cocoon’s language just as you can in our Eorzean tongue.” There’s a short pause and then Coco posits, “How else could you have read the titles of those books over there? I watched you do it.”

“What?” Hope breathes, recoiling slightly. That revelation hadn’t even occurred to him. “How is that even possible?”

She sighs and stretches both arms ahead, yawning at the apex. A quick swallow of coffee and then, “Magic? From what we know about the Echo, it translates on a situational basis. So one person says something and the Echo’s power makes the other person understand it perfectly. With me so far?” Coco looks to Hope for acknowledgement and he nods slowly. “Sometimes there’s a transference. So, the knowledge of your language passed over to me and vice versa. Like now, for example, I’m deliberately speaking in what I know to be Cocoon’s language, which is – I mean, was foreign to me. But … ”

Hope stares ahead, dumbfounded. Searching the sprawl of information laid out inside of his consciousness, he finds it sitting right there. Words and letters; the grammatical structure and verb tables of a language he should never possess. Impossible, and yet it clearly isn’t. How did they even get into his mind? When? By what medium had this phenomenon occurred?

“Say something else,” he requests of Coco, currently gazing up at him from her exhausted slouch in the chair. “Please.”

“Like what?” A warm smile graces her expression then. “I suppose I could answer a few more of your questions in your own language. Would that help to make you believe this is real, Hope? It may help me to, if nothing else.”

It’s faint, but he detects the ever-so-slight inflection in Coco’s speech; like she’s assimilating the words without an accent. He stares into her eyes, unsure of what to say confronted by such an incredible discovery. What could he possibly offer to do it justice? Hope’s mouth opens and then closes again, waiting for the sluggish composure of thoughts within until speaking.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” he admits. Very unscientifically, Hope chooses a subject at random and begins to ask questions about it, branching off into other avenues of existential learning. He had entered Coco’s study knowing hardly anything at all about her realm of Eorzea and that ignorant shard of himself is quickly evolved; their one-sided lesson filled with anecdotes and facts, stories of beasts and different peoples; of magic and historical events. For every single aspect Hope queries Coco on a further thousand questions blossom into being like a never-ending hunger for knowledge.

“Coco, enough. You must be so very tired,” he sighs much later and glances out of the window at the twilight spread of dark blue. Time has beguiled him once more. Not even a journey across dimensional space could change that forever curse. Guilt laces through Hope’s chest, aching as he gazes upon this auburn-haired Eorzean woman he’d known snippets about just this morning. She stares innocently at him, ignorant of the shame he feels at having subjected her to yet further exhaustion.

“I suppose.” Coco’s voice is all cracked and slow, broken up by fatigue. “You owe me, Hope. Answers. Lots. And lots … ”

By the time Hope opens his mouth to agree she’s already drifted off, sprawled upon the desk like he must have been in his office that fateful night. Sighing, he pulls a throw from the armchair across the room and lays it delicately over her hunched shoulders. He doesn’t even try to stop himself stroking a soft caress along Coco’s hair, silently apologising for the selfishness he’d enacted upon her constitution.

Rocked by a world of revelations, that uphill journey back to Elysian’s manor is more difficult than Hope Estheim imagined it would be.


	9. « Yainu-Par – The Lavender Beds, Eorzea │ day fourteen »

Coco takes a deep breath and then exhales, determined to perceive her current surroundings from a different angle. With both eyes closed she first concentrates on the scent of water racing by in the swift-moving stream. There’s that background note of algae, earthy like waterlogged soil, and an ever so faint perfume of water lilies washed over with sweet lavender hanging on the breeze. Another breath and it’s changed composition entirely : sun-baked wooden boards, heavy canvas awnings of the pavilion damp with recent rain and a swirl of eastern cherry blossom trees shedding their petals somewhere near by.

Next in the sensory expedition are sounds of the riverside pier. Coco picks up the distinctive noise of pike thrashing about in the shallows; their predatory dash spelling doom for some smaller, less defensive fish. Snippets of a two-way conversation float over about someone named Milu causing scandal in a steamy affair if those two gossiping adventurers are to be believed. Leaves scrunch in the great oak behind Coco, with that same provoking breeze causing flowers to rustle and blades of grass to softly rattle against one another like warring sabres. She sighs at length, adding to the ambiance and at last opens her eyes, wincing at the too-bright sunlight.

Having withdrawn from that jaunt of auditory discovery Coco extracts her notebook and a fine-tipped drawing pencil from the haversack. She had been determined to experience Eorzea in a manner other than light and shadow, searching for hidden depths she could later share with Hope. That unexpected encounter at her estate two days ago had shaken things up. Not only had Coco been entangled in a strange uncharacteristically open mood due to lack of sleep, but the aftermath had plunged her into perpetual musing.

Take this morning, for instance. Even though she’s witnessed these very surroundings in every possible weather and season combination, how is she to remember them a year from now? Maybe she’ll live elsewhere – like grandfather Sylvain does – in some other place where the landscape ingrains itself upon her subconsciousness, nudging out those old and faded memories of the Twelveswood. It’s important, therefore, to record everything; to draw and write, to capture these cherished experiences so that they can survive many years from now. Who knows what the future will bring?

Coco exhales loosely and reaches across to stroke Choux, trailing a line between those tiny vestigial wings. He’s fast asleep, naturally unaffected by the silent turmoil swirling around in his master’s head. Hearing the crunch of approaching footsteps, she turns around just in time to catch silver-haired Hope coming to a halt.

“Here you are,” he says cheerfully, appearing bright and well-rested. “Anders’ directions led me true. Good morning, Coco.”

She responds by taking in Hope's outward appearance gripped by a haze of silent curiosity. He's wearing ash-coloured trousers and the calf-length boots he'd brought to into Eorzea, with a close-fitting sandy shirt that is most definitely of the Shroud's make. Hope's slender frame – further reduced by recent illness – inspires in Coco the urge to present him with all manner of sweet baked delights. That would most certainly restore some measure of roundness to his diminished figure. Coco wonders on that and unconsciously stares up into those sea-green eyes, instantly falling prey to their erudite snare.

“I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?” Hope asks, seemingly uncomfortable at the lack of response. She shakes her head, feeling a momentary twinge of nerves as a man from another world smiles at her, but then his focus shifts away. “Oh, who’s this?”

“His name is Choux,” Coco says timidly, watching the bird’s beak open into a lascivious yawn. She picks him up and sits him atop the notebook in her lap. “It’s a type of Sharlayan patisserie. A puffed up pastry ball filled with fresh whipped cream.”

“That sounds delicious.” It takes a second to sink in and then, “I am, of course, referring to the pastry and not your pet bird.” Hope clears his throat nervously and sits down beside her in Choux’s vacated space, mere ilms away. He strokes a hand along one thigh, squeezing where Coco remembers that deep lateral gouge had been in Crimson Bark. “How are you feeling? And I apologise for keeping you awake so very late the night before last.”

“Well-rested. I slept straight through until dinnertime the following day.” Merely recalling the sprawled position she’d woken up in makes Coco’s neck ache in response. She massages it with one hand and carefully passes Choux over to Hope with the other, brushing an errant dodo feather from her notebook. “He likes being stroked.”

There are so many desperate questions balanced precariously on the tip of her tongue but right now she can’t ask a single one. The phenomenon of Echo transference looms like an eclipse over a fat full moon, casting everything beneath it into shadow. Even the Sharlayans’ capacious knowledge barely touched upon that subject. Well, in whatever material had been in the public section of the bibliotheca anyway. Perhaps they’d studied the Echo and all of its manifestations in the restricted areas, locked away behind complex magical wards and a veritable sea of paperwork. Nothing a paladin could breach, then. It would only take one of her Eorzea-loving countrymen both amenable and knowledgeable enough to help. Child’s play.

Coco exhales silently through her mouth, feeling that frustration multiply with each new thought. It seems there’s always an obstacle; a meddlesome plague of chigoes come to sap the vigour out of her enthusiasm. She shakes her head free of frivolous notions and begins to sketch a panorama of Yainu-Par, immersing herself into something physical.

Surprisingly, Hope doesn’t interrupt. There’s just the sound of water lapping against stone as it journeys on to meet the great Velodyna river further down the vale. Songbirds warble, wood ravens crow and a wooden craft lists upon its moorings, sloshing upon the current with a gentle ambiance. Coco’s drawing is finally beginning to take shape. Curves and lines form soft arching strokes of the ferry’s bow and a canvassed deck shaded from sunlight. Darkness pools where shadows fall and light shimmers upon metal fixings, flaring bright in reflective bursts. It’s life reproduced in greyscale upon parchment paper.

“You’re a talented artist,” Hope says quietly, eventually breaking their silence. She stops mid-stroke and stills, not quite knowing how to acknowledge that compliment. “You seem nervous around me, Coco. You don’t have to feel that way.”

“And yet find myself thus.” The words escape unthinkingly. _You said that out loud. Stupid_ , she bristles _._

“Why though?” Hope asks, persistent in this endeavour. Coco covertly slides her gaze sideways and catches a glimpse of him stroking Choux, those fingers combing through off-white feathers. His voice continues on in a gentle tone. “Please tell me if I’ve ever given you cause to fear me. It’s not intentional and I certainly don’t want you to feel that.”

Coco sighs in response, stalling. How can she possibly explain how she feels so soon after they’ve met? It’s not like he’ll understand. Not like she understands either, come to think of it. Those frozen ocean eyes outlining his obvious intelligence; that suggestion of adventures in learning they could both embark upon together. It’s like being back home in Sharlayan all of those years ago, wandering the halls of the Great Gubal Library in search of something wonderful and esoteric. But then there’s that countering influence of what she’d felt in his Echo. Soaked so deeply in Hope’s emotions Coco isn’t sure where his end and hers begin. Could this be a side-effect of the transference? Is it something much deeper and troubling?

“You’re the first Pulsian I’ve met,” she offers weakly and lays her pencil down onto the notebook’s seam. “You know far more about me than I do of you and Academia. A entire world’s worth if the other day is any indication of that.”

Hope laughs lightly. “Indeed, though I’m well aware of my debt to you. Don’t hesitate to ask any questions you may have. Failing that, I could just talk endlessly about whatever comes to mind. It’s your choice, Ser Delouix.”

“Please don’t call me that,” Coco smiles despite her nerves. “It’s that unyielding middle ground between formal title and being afraid to say my actual name.”

Under the blanket of silence that follows, she looks across at silver-haired Hope to see a strange expression adorning his face. Eyebrows arch upward, the faintest ghost of a smile haunts those lips and an unfocused glaze softens his eyes. He turns and regards her, initiating a tension-laden stare that lasts for several seconds.

“You’re absolutely right, of course. My apologies Coco. I should have known better given my own experience.” And then Hope is glancing away to the water’s edge. “In Academia, my job title had been Director of Academy Research and Developmental Studies. Despite me stating otherwise, everyone would simply call me ‘Director Estheim’ but it sounds too impersonal, doesn’t it. Almost as if people are holding you at a distance with expectation and silent demands of capability.”

He looses a breathless sigh and that feeble smile turns morose. To dispel the sudden atmosphere, Coco reaches across and strokes at Choux’s neck as Hope scratches between the wings. Their hands are so very close. What if they should touch again? She wonders if he even notices, or would mind. Not that the dodo would complain. No, he’s far too coddled to care about an overabundance of petting.

“No formality between us then?” Coco asks in a light voice. He turns to face her and smiles warmly, not withdrawing from Choux’s fluffed plumage any more than she does.

“Please. I would like that.” There’s a short pause and then Hope says, “So, what would you like to know?”

After a moment’s thought, Coco takes the easy way out. “Everything?”

She hadn’t meant it to be humorous but Hope laughs anyway. That sudden burst of happiness gladdens her Elezen heart.

“That would take a very long time,” he says. “What if I told you about Academia and we go from there. Would that suffice?”

And so, sitting at Coco’s side on a wooden bench by the river, Hope unfurls an entire chapter of his own history. Academia is an impossible city of metal and glass, brimming alive with a population exceeding eleven million citizens. He describes buildings so tall they’d dwarf the Observatorium in Coerthas several times over, extrapolates upon concepts so fantastical that Coco can hardly believe they’re true, and paints such a beautiful picture of advanced technology that tears brim in her eyes. Pulse’s surface world sounds amazing : vast sprawling meadowland dotted with mountain ranges and deep gorges, sheer cliffs and outpourings of life bursting forth where rivers meet. Just like the Dravanian hinterlands Coco knows so well.

Although Hope’s innocent lessons soon begin to unravel the very foundations of Sharlayan knowledge with a terrifying precision. Life can definitely exist without aether, Hydaelyn isn’t a star but a ‘planet’ and the Void isn’t at all unique to Coco’s world. Sunshine and alchemy can power machines made to sustain bigger, even more powerful devices that provide energy for a whole city. On and on Hope weaves his otherworldly truths, shattering what this one paladin had been taught since childhood. All she can do is listen, hungrily absorbing every word like a dehydrated sponge.

Morning quickly merges into afternoon. Coco sits beside Hope and stares out across the water, rapt with information overload. She can’t help but wonder what would have happened to this man had she not found him in Crimson Bark. All of this miraculous knowledge would have died along with him, bleeding out onto the cold stone riverbed like those haunting dark dreams had threatened. Swallowing the thick lump in her throat she aches for a fully-controllable Echo power, desperate to delve into Hope’s memories and see Academia for herself. If only heartfelt wishes could come true.

“Is everything okay, Coco?” Hope eventually asks, apparently trying to coax her into responding. He’s gazing down at Choux and stroking the dodo’s flanks with a slow circular rhythm of both thumbs. Late afternoon sunshine slices through the haze lingering just above the lake’s surface now. A beautiful balmy spring day in the Lavender Beds and they’d spent most of it in a one-sided conversation. When Coco still doesn’t reply, Hope turns to her and frowns with open concern.

“Feeling overwhelmed?” he muses. She nods lethargically and loses herself in those aquatic eyes once more. Hope is a real person from another world – a living miracle who owes his continued existence to a pair of simple Eorzean women. There’s no way Coco can begin to imagine how Hope feels or what he’d lost if half of those stories are true. What could she say?

“I’m glad we rescued you though.” Understated yet true. Even those words sound like platitude.

“So am I,” he chuckles. “I can never repay you for that, can I?” She shakes her head, determined that a paladin’s oath prevents recompense for such matters. “I sort of understand how you feel, thrown in at the deep end like this. But I can’t get over how many similarities our worlds share. Chocobos, elemental magic, our pantheon and separate history based upon crystal.” A dramatic pause and then, “Not even mentioning the ravenous beasts that would eat us alive … ”

“Coffee too. Don’t forget that.” Coco smiles at Hope.

“No, of course not. I was saving the best part until last.” They gaze at each other, the lull in conversation a welcome break.

Well aware of these hot and cold streaks running through her, she doesn’t quite know how to feel. What Hope encapsulates makes her nervous but the draw of intellectualism is hard to resist. There’s something about his personality – so calm and pleasant despite his dire situation – that makes her want to spend time with him; to learn from him, to teach him about Eorzea. If the situation had been reversed, Coco knows for sure she wouldn’t be able to cope like he is managing to.

“Thank you,” Hope is saying quietly, “For making it much easier. Everyone has been so generous and – ”

“Serpent Lieutenant Delouix?” The sudden voice belongs to an Adders runner dressed in black and yellow – a young Duskwight man of around twenty summers. “I have an urgent message for you. Pray visit the Adders’ Nest at your earliest convenience. Serpent Marshal Jannice wishes to discuss your recent endeavour in Limsa Lominsa.” A curt bow and he’s speeding away up the path, presumably to deliver more messages to Lavender Beds residents.

“You’re a lieutenant too? Are you absolutely sure I shouldn’t call you Ser Delouix?” Hope teases, almost grinning. He laughs softly at the ensuing scowl then, “If you’d like we can speak whenever you return. I’m sure you have more to ask.”

Coco stands and stretches. Her legs are stiff after being seated so very long. She recalls something her grandfather had told her long ago : “Don’t ever let opportunity escape, my dear. Snatch it. Grab onto it possessively and claim it as your own.”

Her beloved Sylvain Delouix. If only he could be here to offer counsel on this tangled mess. Coco has no doubt at all that grandfather would be able to handle it much better than she had, tossed this way and that by emotions. What is she going to do now? The default option would be to leave and abandon Hope here at the lakeside, but perhaps there’s another way.

“Care to join me?” she asks timidly, surprised at her own boldness. Those sea-green eyes widen and she worries, thinking perhaps there’s been some confusion. Continuing on quickly Coco explains, “I mean, there should be enough time after the meeting for a tour around Gridania. It’s almost sundown, but at least we can explore a little. And chat on the ferry.”

“Of course. I would like that,” Hope says as he rises from the bench. Sunlight falls across his hair and incandescence catches those striations like sunshine on water. Such an unusual metallic hue, falling in short layered curves around his face and framing those articulate features. It only reminds Coco of how unique he is – this man from an impossible world.

Perhaps he’s correct and she needn’t be so nervous around him, but instincts caution otherwise. She can’t ignore that prevalent thread of fate pulling her towards Hope. It’s stark and worrisome; reminiscent of pre-Calamity when Dalamud had grown closer to Eorzea with each passing day.


	10. « The Hedgetree – The Central Shroud, Eorzea │ day seventeen »

It hadn’t taken long to convert this peaceful glade into a wasteland of destitute and broken forms. Around the centrepiece of an old dead tree practice swords are scattered in abandonment, splintered in their uselessness and fated to burn within a hearth. There had been no prejudice in the swords’ downfall. Most of them are light-coloured softwoods like cedar and fir carved into long blades, but there’s an occasional pine brand cracked upon the loamy ground. Their end is almost pleasant compared to the rest; that distinctive aroma of dried alpine sap curling into cool night air the only evidence of a massacre.

Holding the sundered haft of one such practice sword and regarding it with a growing sense of annoyance, Coco throws it to the ground. She returns once more to the pile of wooden blades she’d brought in Rhongo’s cart and picks out a denser, more reliable hardwood this time – sugar maple to start off with. If this doesn’t bear the brunt of one paladin’s ire, then there’s always the rosewood and treated ebony. Perhaps she’ll even make it to the tempered ironwood.

Coco sighs and glances off towards the lake, touching Rhongo’s bill as he rises to greet her. Torchlight dances on the water’s surface like liquid fire upon a sheet of silky black satin, distorting as the ripples extend outwards and grow. Walking back to the object of her aggression – that old dead oak withered long before Dalamud’s ungentle caress – Coco contemplates the difference seven years make. In the old Black Shroud before everything had changed, the very act of hitting a dead tree with pieces of other dead trees would have her soaked in Greenwrath. Those guardian elementals, witnessing such a disrespectful contempt for nature, would have cursed Coco’s wicked soul and sent frenzied beasts to slay her.

But now the spirits may as well be extinct; diminished in power and barely able to do more than whisper into a Hearer’s ear or faintly ghost into view, should one need proof of there ever being elementals in the first place. At least these trees have a use in death, existing to serve another purpose. And besides, where is Coco’s respect, long since due after years of fighting in the forest’s name? She isn’t even a Gridanian native and she’d risked her life for the Twelveswood without so much as gramercy. Like always, blind faith is simply expected and silently demanded of an adventurer; that looming threat of non-compliance never far away.

Gripping the sugar maple’s haft so tight her fist shakes, Coco aims at a divot in the bark and attacks with a lateral slice. It sloughs away in satisfying chunks, so she launches at it over and over again. Flecks of dead oak soon litter the ground like woodchips upon a carpenter’s floor. Her muscles embrace that warmth generated against the coldness of a lakeside evening, and yet before long Coco is returning with the treated ebony after all. Maple is just another species of Black Shroud flora fallen casualty to this woman’s fury.

The past three days have been a tumultuous endeavour. After the pleasant evening in Gridania with Hope, Coco hadn’t been able to spend any time alone with him at all. Following that day of enlightenment on Yainu-Par it had been perfect; wandering through a forest city lit up by the soft glow of lanterns and ending up on that harbour, both of them consumed in the need for knowledge.

Whilst waiting for the late ferry they’d fallen into interrogation, questions coming rapid-fire and being answered with a kind of zealous pride; some curious sensation of fulfilment warming Coco as she’d taught Hope about Eorzea and her world. She never had this opportunity before – to teach and bestow understanding – yet it’s strangely addictive, although nothing could compare to Academia and every impossible facet of its existence.

Of course, Pahn'a had interrupted their flow of knowledge the following day. Coco had gone to the Elysian household just after dawn and discovered that Hope had been deployed to Gridania. He would learn well enough with Pindon and Rhyl to guide his new-born adventurer spirit, but Coco felt cheated all the same. Waking to a consciousness full of urgent questions had been difficult enough to bear, but then she’d had to stow them away reluctantly. Enduring that for two whole days felt like a proverbial bees’ nest inside of her head, spoiled as she had been during the fervent two-way inquisition.

It had only gotten worse at dinner last night seated opposite Hope at Elysian’s dining table. Social convention and their agreed-upon secrecy stymied any opportunity to converse, and being surrounded by so many adventurers meant all they could do was glance furtively at one another. As compensation Coco had immersed herself in those seafoam eyes for a time until catching sight of Pahn'a and his self-satisfied expression. The obvious ruse had brought about simmering frustration.

And yet, despite all of that, it had been mere icing on the cake compared to this morning’s follow-up meeting at the Adders’ Nest. Coco had to endure Serpent Marshal Jannice effectively blaming her for a conflict of interest between two grand companies, because the Maelstrom are upholding their conviction and wouldn’t be withdrawing it any time soon. That Coco had ‘attacked a senior officer without provocation’ is a serious allegation and it threatens her name as well as adventuring credentials, even though it’s completely fabricated.

“Do you actually believe me?” Coco had asked, barely stemming the tide of anger, “When have I ever given you cause to doubt anything I’ve done? The Yellowjackets threw me into a cargo ship’s hold and marched me off without a hearing. And you’re dismissing the testimony of General Aliapoh, whose intervention saved me from rotting in that disgusting gaol cell.”

He did believe her. That hadn’t been the issue. It was of course, very predictably, down to politics. The Order of Twin Adder isn’t about to start an issue with Maelstrom command because of one lieutenant’s actions, regardless if she’s an Echoed individual. They don’t even care that Coco is one of countless adventurers who’d laid their lives on the line seven years ago. How soon that fidelity is dismissed when there’s no giant artificial moon falling to earth.

Returned to the forest clearing, Coco takes a steadying breath and renews her assault. Most people won’t dare venture here due to the proximity of Tam-Tara Deepcroft, making it a relative sanctuary away from greater society after nightfall. Magicked skeletons, undead warlocks and vengeful wisps are all said to roam here in darkness, slaying any mortals they come across. Just as folklore cautions, those things do exist but they won’t leave the barrow itself due to being bound within that place. Real knowledge goes a long way. That and not believing every piece of hearsay passed down for generations.

Besides, Rhongo is there to forewarn of any danger, should something attempt to sneak up on them. Coco glances back at him lain upon the grass and sighs, knowing he’s the only soul whose presence she will openly tolerate right now. It’s doubtful even Hope’s calm demeanour would be able to soothe her, provided she could even find where Pan had hidden him all day. And so it’s just the paladin with a dead tree stump, an ever-increasing pile of broken practice swords and night’s cloak of darkness broken up by pale moonlight. Soft silver luminosity pours into the wood’s cracked exterior, offsetting the raw pain coursing through Coco and outlining the aggression guiding her sword hand.

After Serpent Marshal Jannice had shared his droll proclamation, she had naively believed it would conclude the meeting. However, there had been two more revelations to come, each more cruel than the last. For the first Jannice pulled a handwritten letter out of his desk and made a great show of sitting up straight to read it, as if that small act would soften its impact. Serpent Lieutenant Delouix – it had read – would be henceforth banned from entering Vylbrand until either her arrest or the ongoing investigations had found her innocent. What had been the Maelstrom’s reasoning? None, aside from the fact that they didn’t want troublesome adventurers within their territory whatsoever.

Upon hearing that, Coco had almost abandoned protocol and come close to laughing in the face of a superior officer. Limsa Lominsa did not equal all of Vylbrand, nor did the Maelstrom own the entire sub-continent, so how are they going to police that edict? What if she hopped onto the back of a friendly sahagin’s elbst and rode across the Strait of Merlthor, landed upon the barren northern shore and decided to set up camp for a while? It’s doubtful the Maelstrom would ride through hostile kobold country just to arrest her again but they had lied once, after all. Lied and accepted lies, used them to punish her and now the Twin Adders are too afraid to raise an objection. They had chosen the safer, more political route.

Serpent Marshal Jannice did not find Coco’s half-serious jest amusing in the slightest, and so he moved onto the next matter. It’s the venomous thorn that had driven the paladin out here to exact her fury upon a battered old stump in Central Shroud; a heinous act of barbarity that tore her up inside and threatened to overcome every shred of temperance she’d ever learned. Few events had challenged this free paladin of fifteen years more than that single sheet of parchment, personally signed by and sealed with the Storm Marshal’s waxen stamp.

But then Rhongo trills a warning sound and Coco whirls to face the unfortunate interloper, that lacquered ebony sword brandished in one hand. Two citrine eyes pierce the midnight blue pall of dusk like beacons. Who else, but Pahn'a Epocan.

“Whatever did that poor innocent tree do to you?” he quips, taking several steps forward but staying out of the sword’s reach – a wise move, given Coco’s mercurial ire. His gaze flickers to the oak’s stump and onto the wooden blade, sliding upwards onto his friend’s face. She turns her back on him, stabbing at a piece of loose bark and kicking those on the ground.

“Not in the mood right now,” Coco almost growls.

“Yes, I can clearly see that, what with you being here alone at night attacking dead tree stumps in a fit of melancholy.” A hush falls over the glade until an owl hoots somewhere close by. “I know what happened,” Pan admits softly, the sound of his voice shifting around to Coco’s other side. “All of it. Those years of servitude to the Adders left me with some interesting friends, and I know that when Aliapoh tried to defend you she – ”

“No. I don’t want to talk about that, so don’t bother.”

In an attempt to drown out the anticipated counter-argument, Coco begins attacking the barren oak once more. Hard jabs and twisting thrusts, broadsided strikes that make a resounding crash on impact. Before it had been quiet and measured, but now the assault serves a real purpose. She’d take anything to stop another repetition of the morning’s events in her mind. During a powerful backhanded swing she hears Pan calling her name, faint through the blade’s velocious whirr. But then the practice sword erupts into flame like a burning torch and its varnish crackles under the heat of magical fire. Coco throws the kindling aside and spins around, glaring at her friend with unbridled fury.

“Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I don’t want to go through that again?” she growls through gritted teeth and stands her ground. “You setting my gods-damned sword alight will not change that fact.”

“Of course it occurred to me. Why do you think I’m out here?” Pan takes one step closer then. “You can’t keep these things inside of you, Coco, no matter how strong you believe yourself to be. You must needs face them to conquer them, to set them aside and move on.”

Again Coco turns her back on him. Pan sighs dramatically and strolls past her to the pile of broken swords, choosing a mostly intact specimen from the ground. He retrieves the charred ebony blade he’d set alight and hands it back to her, challenging her with an unrelenting stare.

“Seeing as though you’re keen on pursuing this nonsense, take your frustration out on me and not a defenceless tree that can’t hit back. Let’s not make suffering too easy now, shall we?” the Miqo'te drawls.

“I’m not fighting you, Pan.” Coco allows the sword fall out of her hand and onto the grassy soil at her feet.

“You started this by ignoring me. So you’re picking fights with a favourable enough outcome now?” Pan places the ruined end of his wooden sword at Coco’s chest, pushing hard against her plate mail in an effort to spur action. It squeaks against the polished metal. “Rather cowardly, wouldn’t you agree. What would Ser Dauremont think if he could see you now?”

“Don’t say his name,” she threatens.

“Why not? Aren’t you strong enough to ignore me now, Ser Delouix?”

Moving lightning-fast, Coco closes the distance between them and claims the splintered sword, turning it back on Pan. She feels that unstoppable well of emotion burning in her chest and stinging painfully in both eyes. The night crowds in like a suffocating blanket and darkness looms heavy upon the atmosphere, adding to an already tense situation.

“Never mention his name again! I should have saved him!” she snaps, shoving back the emotional turmoil. But then her mind unconsciously flashes back to the Storm Marshal’s letter and something inside of her cracks, flooding through the resolve to stay calm. “He was the first in a succession of pointless deaths. They hurt most, those I could have prevented.”

Handwritten words outline themselves from Coco’s memory, spaced out as if to maximise the impact wrought upon her fractured constitution. _The Mamool Ja clan terrorising Bronze Lake has been hunted down and eradicated._ She tightens her grip upon the broken sword to feel its solid resistance. _We hope you will pass this message onto the aforementioned lieutenant in the spirit of mutual cooperation._ Her eyes bore into Pan’s stare as it silently judges her composure against those words he must have heard too at some point. _Due to the brave efforts of our field officer, that part of Vylbrand is now safe from those savage predators roaming our fair lands_.

“After everything I did to stop them, they hunted that poor creature down and destroyed his clan anyway.” Coco takes a step back from her friend, tossing the practice sword away. “Their village was burned down to ash and the young children, tiny little hatchlings, had their throats slit before being tossed onto a pyre.”

Pan sighs sadly, opening his mouth to speak but is cowed into submission upon seeing Coco’s expression. She’s trembling with anger and revulsion both, innards aching and that bitter taste of bile upon her tongue.

“Yes, don’t worry. I had that lovely picture painted to me earlier on today, albeit mentioning none of the blood and gore of innocents. That much I can imagine for myself.” She stares down at the ground, resolved not to cry in front of Pan. It wouldn’t do for a paladin to show weakness. “Did you know that the Lominsans themselves brought Mamool Ja to Vylbrand? Lured them over with false promises of money and their own land if they’d help rebuild that filthy pirate city after the Calamity decimated it. And what happened when it was done? They kicked the Mamool Ja out into the wilderness with nothing and then hunted them down for sport. Can you imagine that? Slaughtered for simply trying to survive.”

“None of that is your fault, Coco. Neither is the death of your mentor.” Pan reaches forward to catch a single tear in her eye before it escapes and sighs, softly stroking along her cheek. “I’m worried about you. This behaviour is reckless and it will invariably end in your own suffering.”

“Reckless?” she huffs incredulously and shoves his hand away. “I swore an oath to protect the innocent and I’m reckless?”

Pahn'a scowls, his eyes narrowing into slices of luminous topaz in the darkness. “Should I repeat my statement? You never seem able to predict the consequences, Coco. Eorzea doesn’t operate according to your standards, no matter how well-intentioned they are and people most certainly do not. You can’t save every imperilled soul. Most don’t even deserve it.”

“Oh, there’s the real issue right there.” Coco points an accusing finger at her friend and testily backs away towards Rhongo. She hitches the chocobo’s cart to his saddle and then wanders around, gathering up the bits of broken practice sword and shoving them underneath one arm. “Don’t think I didn’t notice your machinations over the past few days. Very mature.”

“Since you’re unable to show some restraint, then needs must. Both of you are far too comfortable around one another.” Pan joins in with the cleaning operation, trailing behind Coco at a safe distance. “You have no idea who he is or even what he’s capable of. This behaviour from a woman who spends her existence on perpetual defence is quite alarming to watch.”

Coco stops and turns around, fixing the Miqo'te with a hard stare. “Hope would never hurt me.”

Her friend sighs, “And you’re convinced of that after how long? It took me moons to earn that level of trust from you.”

“Really, anyone would think that’s jealousy speaking and not a sense of rational calm.” Recognising the bitterness far too late, Coco sighs and throws her armload of sundered wood into Rhongo’s cart with a clatter. She leans against the white chocobo newly risen to his feet and scratches the soft patch beneath his wing tenderly. Rhongo is so soft and warm like a giant fluffy pillow. “Sorry Pan. I know you’re only looking out for me, but this isn’t as simple as you make out.”

“Then correct my outsider’s view. How am I meant to help when you keep information from me, Gingerbread?”

Coco smiles instinctively at the use of Pan’s pet name for her as he tosses his own firewood collection into the cart. Those lemony eyes regard her when he halts not two fulms away, folding both arms across his slender thaumaturge chest.

“You know Hope has the Echo,” she states, waiting until the Miqo'te nods in response. “There’s … ah, transference too. And no, it isn’t like that. So don’t give me that stupid look.”

Pan’s mouth has already turned upwards into a smirk. “Like what? Oh, I see. You’re introducing a mythical power so that there’s a convenient reason for you having a crush on him that isn’t reliant on simple, base desire.” He grins at Coco’s protest and merely waves away her words. “Come now. I know you far better than to believe you’d be swayed by such a flimsy excuse. Don’t you think I’ve seen this before? It’s always Hyuran men. There wasn’t Echo magic then and there isn’t now.”

If Coco had an escape route she’d have taken it already, but she’s trapped against Rhongo’s flank as the Miqo'te moves closer still. At least he’s finding all of this misery an amusing distraction, if nothing else comes of it.

“Admitting those feelings to yourself is the first step towards dealing with them,” Pan says with a smile. “Do you want him?”

“I … don’t know. Do we have to talk about this?” she grimaces, knowing Hope’s present accommodation hinges on Elysian’s leader. Of course, Pan nods slowly. “You’re cruel. And I’m drawn to Hope for reasons currently unknown to me. I don’t believe it’s as straightforward as you claim, however. He’s from another world, Pan. Do you have any idea what I’ve already learned from him? It’s like someone took the Great Gubal Library’s vast knowledge and infused it into a single person.”

Wearing that stupid grin Pan leans closer, squeezing her chin between thumb and forefinger affectionately.

“Ah, my dear Coco and her legendary curiosity. I anticipated this outcome. It’s only natural you’d fall for a learned man like Silver so quickly. Why do you think I kept you separated? Unfortunately he seems to share your inquisitive nature despite me being prickly and standoffish.” Retreating, the Miqo'te sighs deeply. “You’re set upon this course of action, then?”

Coco nods as her heart races inside. Is that truly the cast of her emotions? She hadn’t considered that outcome. A sense of fatigue clouds over her suddenly, all of that earlier sadness and fury leeching out into the surrounding air. Right now, all this paladin wants to do is go home and sleep, but she breathes loosely in response, “As much as I can be.”

“So be it. If you’re absolutely certain Silver is on the path you want to take, I won’t stand in your way.” Pan’s eyes glimmer with mischief then. “But don’t go resting on those laurels just yet. Oh no. I’m not about to make this easy for either of you. To his credit, he didn’t complain too much at me sending him off to learn the adventuring ropes. Cover story included.”

“Rhyl told me,” Coco smiles at her friend, their relationship repaired. “Forcing him to pay off that debt the long way?”

Pan folds his arms and beams winsomely. “You know I don’t care about that. We help because you asked us to. Elysian isn’t short of revenue in any case, but I’ll make him work very hard to earn you, Gingerbread. Don’t lose sleep over that now.”

“Whatever, furball.” Coco ducks the tree branch hurled at her and laughs softly. “Thanks though. For taking Hope on.” Pan merely nods in silent understanding. This isn’t the first time he’s patched up her sorrows and it’ll doubtless be the last.

But given enough time to reflect, Coco feels embarrassed – almost ashamed – in the subsequent span of quiet. Perhaps she shouldn’t be talking about something so oddly personal when there are more important issues at hand. How had conversation evolved away from that desperate sadness and heartache? So many innocent lives had been extinguished by unthinking hatred and a grand company’s ensuing whitewash. What would people think if the genocide became common knowledge? Would the average Eorzean even care if it doesn’t affect them directly?

Sometimes the burden of a paladin seems like a constant series of fights against ethereal foes, struggling to stay afloat in a tidal wave of adversity. The effort required to uphold that foundational oath of protecting the innocent is exhausting. And yet despite that, it had introduced Hope into Coco’s life, hadn’t it? She sighs and brushes fragments of wood from her hair, leaving that kettle of fish for another day where Pan’s words may not seem quite so fatally accurate.


	11. « Skies over Drybone – Eastern Thanalan, Eorzea │ day nineteen »

Far and beyond the circular pane of glass that serves as a window on this airship, sparse desert wasteland stretches on for malms. Hemmed in by ochre mountain ranges and stacked plateaus of rock, the outdoor terrain is a sun-scorched spread of dust and sand. Whatever manages to survive out here is both hardy and a compulsive gambler – betting its existence on rainstorms from the east and that free-falling water sustenance. Such is life in Thanalan – land of tenacity and hard choices.

Stroking a fingertip along the dusty glass, Coco breathes a sigh threaded with inner turmoil. After the confrontation with Pan life had only gotten more complicated. Since then, she’d eschewed the outside world in a dogmatic attempt to understand herself better. It had involved wandering distant corners of the Black Shroud alone, separating off emotions one by one and pulling them out of that miasma surrounding her heart. Anger at the Maelstrom, sorrow for the slain Mamool Ja tribe, uncertainty at her own future, and a veritable lack of purpose; drifting aimlessly without ambition.

After sifting through all those feelings, Coco had arrived at the core : a silver-haired man she’d rescued from Crimson Bark. That chain of events encapsulates a string of different emotions and weaves them both together inexplicably. Even now, gazing out of the grime-caked window at Thanalan’s barren expanse, all she can think about is their inexplicable connection. Separated from Hope, Coco’s yearning for knowledge had grown into a distended mass rapidly outgrowing her own ability to manage it. She finds herself distracted in details, feeling the absence of Hope like a hole carved into her mind. It both deeply shocks and thrills her; embroiled in such powerful emotions beyond anything she’d anticipated.

Unconsciously, Coco’s heart begins to flutter. She imagines those sea-green eyes staring at her, Hope’s gentle mouth curving upwards into a smile and his voice, educated and nuanced, inspiring a thousand different situations alone with him. And then it happens again. Like a harpoon of ice piercing her chest the fear returns anon. Recoiling, Coco sits up straight and recalls what Pan had suggested that night in Central Shroud. Is she really developing romantic feelings for Hope, or is it a subconscious attachment brought on by their connection? Does part of her view him as an enigma; a puzzle to be solved?

Whatever the reason, there’s always going to be that fear of opening up to another man after what had happened in the past. It had ended in much the same fashion each time : heartbreak and sadness, the tattered shreds of emotions fluttering in separation’s wake. Coco had subsequently done what paladins are famous for – barricaded herself behind stonewalled defences. Underneath those layers of armour her heart has been protected for a long time, but what would it take? Is she ready to embark upon that adventure again? With a man from a whole different world, no less. Of course, that relied upon Hope feeling the exact same way about a primitive Eorzean woman. Could he ever want that? Would she feel worthy?

Troubled by the implication, Coco had decided to travel in order to gather her thoughts. Now she’s perspiring in the cabin of a stuffy airship several malms out from the great desert city itself. She opens the notebook on her lap and goes through the checklist of activities designed to keep her altogether too busy for idle thought and pulls out a pencil. Whipping wind and a groaning clank utter forth from somewhere deep within the airship’s bowels as it banks left, tilting into a new flight path. Coco leans to compensate, shoulders hunched over as she doodles drawings of a certain dodo in the page margins. Lamentably, she can’t help but wonder just how far she’s fallen in those eighteen days since Crimson Bark.

Seated within the Quicksand later that afternoon, Coco marvels at the difference between adventuring guilds. Perhaps it’s an agrarian tranquillity that makes the Carline Canopy that much more relaxed – surrounded by woodland and birdsong – but in here it’s borderline chaotic. There are people filling every available space, crammed into groups against the wall or clambering over each other at the bar, eventually surfacing with a tankard of ale and a look of triumphant relief. Scantily-clad courtesans weave themselves around furniture and the Quicksand’s dusty patrons like a kind of pervasive desert ivy.

Coco shivers despite the sweltering heat. Being fenced in with so many strangers is making her nervous and on-edge, her light tunic already feeling clammy with perspiration. An indomitable bead of sweat snakes down her spine to emphasise that gross discomfort, but she can’t leave just yet. Item number one on the list of distractions is a meeting in Uldah’s social core.

Throat feeling scratchily dry in this climate, she pours herself a glass of iced lemon water and glances around, drawn to a peculiar Auri woman staring unreservedly. With that white hair and stark magenta irises she’s hardly blending into the crowd, but then someone sits themselves down in the chair opposite Coco and blocks her view.

“Well, well. They didn’t tell me who’d be waiting.” Another woman, this time a Duskwight with charcoal skin and eyes the colour of butterscotch. Her brows arch up in amusement as she leans back, folding both arms across her chest. “So storied an adventurer soliciting my presence is a surprise indeed. And don’t mind Onayo back there. She’s making sure we’re not going to be interrupted.”

“Thank you for taking the time to meet. My name’s – ”

“Yes, I know who you are, Ser Delouix. Or would you rather I simply call you Coco? I’m Nivie Haustefort of the Ashcrown Consortium. Public places draw the least attention, oddly enough.” She gestures towards the pitcher and tray of empty glasses sitting atop the table. “May I?”

“Please.” Coco watches Nivie pour herself a glass of lemon water. “And formal titles don’t really do anything for me.”

The Duskwight smiles politely. “Very well. Let’s get down to business then, shall we? I presume you’re here to talk about Vylbrand.” She reaches into a bag slung over her shoulder and pulls out a wad of papers, retrieving a pencil from behind an ear. “What a sad state of affairs for the Mamool Ja. The Consortium is aware of what happened but I should like to hear it direct from the source, if you please.”

Breathing in deep and steadying lungfuls of air, Coco fortifies herself for the sorrowful memories ahead. She pulls them out of the archive sequentially, describing the scenes with an almost painful clarity – a still-living Mamool Ja gatherer, the resounding clash of metal and that jarring force of her disarming blow, her unlawful imprisonment in the Coral Tower. By the end she feels bereft again; forced to relive that which she’d stored away just three days hence at the Hedgetree.

“He called me one of the Chosen. What did he mean by that?” Coco asks, seeking any form of distraction.

Nivie offers a sympathetic look, pausing in her extensive note-taking endeavour to answer the question. “It’s how Mamook culture as a collective whole refers to the Echo.” She takes a sip of water and taps the blunt end of her pencil on the tabletop wearing a pensive frown. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but if you ever decide to stop adventuring Coco, the Ashcrown Consortium would be honoured to have you. It’s a rare and much coveted gift you possess. Priceless in our line of work.”

Dropping her gaze to the stained wooden surface, Coco brushes idle fingertips across it. She occupies herself in the timber’s grain and feathery pattern, trying to correctly place the type of wood. Black walnut, at a guess – quite possibly from the Shroud itself. How far does the Twelveswood reach? But even that diversion can’t allay the morbid curiosity stirring within.

“Could we have done anything to save them?” Coco asks, not looking up from the table.

There’s a pause before Nivie answers as she shuffles the stack of papers and sighs. “We tried to. Shortly after hearing about your imprisonment we sent a ship along the coast, hoping to evacuate them somewhere safe. We’ve been successful with a handful of other tribes in the area, yet this time we arrived much too late and the damage had been done.”

“Evacuate them?” Coco says, sitting upright in her seat. She hadn’t expected that response from a supposedly benign organisation like the Ashcrown Consortium. Formed by a coalition of Echoed adventurers and Sylphs just before the Calamity, they’d originally been established to bridge a widening gap of fragile concord – to trade crystals and prevent attacks on merchant caravans by Eorzea’s beast races. On the one hand, it’s difficult to believe the Consortium is taking an active stance now but working undercover would afford them unhindered movement across the realm.

“Times have changed as you’re likely aware, Coco. Apathy provides nothing but lost opportunity and the very real prospect of death here in Eorzea. It’s no small coincidence that a Twin Adders general happened to be visiting the Coral Tower just as you’d been placed in there, after all.” Nivie smiles knowingly and then shrugs. “Or is it? One can never tell these days.”

“That was your doing?” Coco asks incredulously. She’d never even considered it had been anything other than blind luck.

“The oppressed forever need champions like yourself, ser knight. You do what we cannot and – ” Nivie stops mid-sentence and freezes, the only moving part of her a furtive glance sliding over Coco’s shoulder. Frowning, the Duskwight rifles through the papers and scribbles something hastily, hidden beneath several sheets of heavy parchment. Again her eyes flick up and back down quickly then she holds a finger to her ear, muttering. “Yes, I understand. At once, my liege.”

Sensing tension upon the air, Coco’s hand unconsciously slides down to Almace sheathed at her hip. Curling fingers around the hilt, she reassures herself that no-one would openly start a fight in the adventurers’ guild and violence wouldn’t be forthcoming, but the look on Nivie’s face counteracts that faint belief. The charcoal-skinned woman stands suddenly, stuffing the documents back into her shoulder bag and glancing nervously towards The Quicksand’s back exit.

“Thank you for your honest testimony, Coco. I must leave. It’s been a pleasure.” A curt bow and Nivie whirls around, moving towards white-haired Onayo at the crowded door and leaving soon after – all within the space of three seconds.

Bemused at the exchange and standing awkwardly alone now, Coco scans the crowd for anything suspicious but sees nothing strange. A paladin’s skill at subterfuge and stealth is only rudimentary at best, despite working with rogues at various points during her career. Frustrated, she pours a fresh glass of ice water and downs it in one, feeling those light clothes plastered to her skin with unwelcome perspiration. The air in this place is thick with sweat and stale beer, so many bodies crammed into one room and contributing to a rank odour of uncleanliness.

Unease slithers like salamander oil – lurid and dirty. Suddenly, it’s too much to bear. Coco leaves out of the main entrance, passing a half-naked Hyuran woman entwined with a Sea Wolf and strides across the plaza.

It’s scorching hot out in the unrelenting Thanalan sun, but at least there’s unoccupied space; no anxiety-inducing concentration of people all around, vocally effusive as they shout across the tavern and spill drinks over each other. Just the faint aroma of incense and a sirocco breeze wafting past, lightly serenaded by that background ambiance of civilisation spread out across a vast distance. _It’s okay_ , she intones silently and takes a deep breath. _Stay calm and compose yourself_.

Retreating underneath the shade of a canvas awning, Coco questions the wisdom of being in Ul'dah at all. What with today’s hindsight, escaping Gridania hadn’t been the best idea. Even if Pan is infuriatingly correct and her affection for Hope is blossoming – however ridiculous that sounds to admit – there’s no guarantee he’d ever feel the same. How could he, considering their differences? Maybe the acceptable outcome is to embrace that truth like Pan had counselled, no matter what it is. Breathing a loose sigh, Coco glances off towards the west where Sapphire Avenue Exchange lies not too far away.

Perhaps all she needs is a change of pace. Would it hurt to do something new? It’s then, watching a Miqo'te woman swan by in a swath of peach silk and rose gold jewellery, Coco makes a decision. This economical paladin of practical clothing and provident thrift is preparing to enable something she almost never allows – a bout of mindless retail therapy.

Having emerged from the Sunsilk Tapestries outlet store several bells later, Coco’s arms are laden with bags full of impulsive purchases and carefully chosen nameday gifts. Strangely free of tension now, she wanders around the cool interior of Ul'dah’s shopping district and past the various guildhalls. Apart from cooking and the odd bit of carpentry whenever there’s time, Coco isn’t much of an artisan. Some adventurers make their fortune from it by travelling to distant corners of Eorzea and procuring rare materials with which to craft fantastical items. Invariably, most of them end up in this very city where wealth is abundant and endlessly powerful.

Coco sits down on a stone bench, searching through one specific bag for a box of candied fruits. She’d bought quite a few items from one particular stall : roasted coffee beans from Othard’s volcanic lowlands, a whole bushel of fresh solstice garlic and three jars of exotic spice to use in baking. Selecting a piece of sugared honey lemon and leaning back to eat it, she gazes up at the signpost to the left – ‘Eshtaime’s Lapidaries and Aesthetics’.

Until now, the similarity with Hope’s surname hadn’t even occurred to her. _Estheim and Eshtaime_ , Coco muses silently. _How curious_. Another miraculous link or a bizarre coincidence? She’d been considering that too lately, Hope’s observation on how their completely separate worlds could share so many aspects of everyday life. Absently, she wonders what he’s doing right now; where he is and whether he’s thinking about her, wondering what she’s doing in turn. Probably not, but it’s an appealing notion nonetheless. Perhaps Hope would like to share the candied fruits as an experiment in Eorzean cuisine.

The sudden scream shatters that calmness of thought. Gathering all of her bags, Coco races to the sound’s source with a hand hovering over Almace – and comes face to face with death. Slumped against a stack of crates, a well-built Highlander man is pinned solidly with a scimitar hilt protruding from his chest. Crimson ichor drips off the cold metal and pools wetly upon the paved floor. Coco recoils in shock. That distinctive metallic scent of blood is rife as more people arrive to investigate in droves, gasping and muttering excitedly amongst themselves. A pair of young women stand off to one side sobbing onto each other’s shoulders; one of them having presumably made the gruesome discovery.

As the antechamber fills with people clamouring for a look Brass Blades arrive to restore order and starts shouting commands. Excited discussion devolves into angry cajoling as people are driven back from the crime scene. Murder in broad daylight and it’s merely a circus of drama to them; part of an Ul'dahn’s life in this city of questionable morality. Feeling nauseated, Coco takes a step back only to be shoved sideways and teeter off-balance. She only just catches the flash of white disappearing into the crowd.

Something’s wedged into her hand now where before it’d been empty; a ragged scrap of paper. Unfolding it reveals an almost illegible scrawl of old Gelmorran cipher, the angular shapes familiar to Coco from her grandfather’s journals – “You’re being watched from the darkness. Be safe. – Nivie.”

Panic stirring in her chest, Coco freezes. Trapped between conflicting instincts of fight or flight she stands rooted to the ground. Questions flash through her mind. _What do they want with me? Are they here right now, seeing my reaction? Is it the killer, coming for me next?_ She concentrates on breathing in then out. Her eyes gloss over throngs of jostling people as the air becomes thinner, hotter. Forcefully willing herself to move, Coco turns and hurries back to the rented room in The Quicksand.

After checking every ilm of the small chamber for intrusion and finding none, she calms down a notch. Nothing is missing. Quiet stillness reigns in here and there isn’t so much as a dust mote out of place. Clutching at relief, Coco sits down on the bed and sinks into the linen bedspread, tracing fingers over its bobbled texture. She closes her eyes and exhales, allowing tension to flow out in a warm flurry of breath. It’s when she falls backwards and glances to one side that she sees the note, propped innocently atop one of the pillows. Believing it another missive from Nivie, Coco reaches for it with no small amount of trepidation. But it turns out to be something completely unexpected.

It’s a neat list of names, some crossed out with repeated strokes of a charcoal stick. None of these people are immediately recognisable apart from one at the very top – Toffsunn Fhilwilfsyn; the Roegadyn adventurer murdered at Bronze Lake. His name is one of those crossed off. Extinguished, like his existence. Pulse racing and throat dry, Coco scans the list more attentively. Fear’s ice harpoon pierces her heart once more upon recognising another name; this time circled repeatedly in red ink – deep crimson, like the spilled blood of that slain Highlander.

“Lhei Yusnaan – Elysian FC, Gridania.”


	12. « Elysian Free Company house – The Lavender Beds, Eorzea │ day twenty one »

Despite the relatively short time Hope has spent in this world he’s learned a great deal about it. For instance, he knows that Hydaelyn weeks have eight days instead of Pulse’s seven and that all twelve months contain an even set of thirty-two. Quite amazingly, time is measured in the exact same fashion on Hydaelyn as it is on Pulse – seconds, minutes and hours all neatly divided into four distinct seasons. Either that’s some uncanny coincidence or there’s much more to it. Perhaps their worlds are mirror images, branching off at some point to follow different evolutionary routes. What a discovery that would be.

For Hope at least, it allows easier calculation. Approximately five hundred and sixteen hours he’s been torn from Academia, give or take. That’s almost thirty-one thousand minutes and in all of that time he’s no closer to finding a way home. Whilst mathematics is the one comfort Hope can rely on – the language of numbers being a perpetual constant wherever you are – other sciences have thus far failed him. He’d spent hours each night scouring the Crystarium for any possible solution, checking and re-checking those last-minute diagnostic scans of Amp Lab #02. Just one single clue could mean everything at this point and yet there had been no such timely intervention. Hope is going to have to do this the hard way.

He can’t help but wonder though. Barring any time distortion across the Void, three Pulsian weeks have frittered away whilst Hope has been stranded here, so the Academy should have started an investigation into his sudden disappearance. The eventual trail would lead security to his last known location and then they’d go through the AMP portal logs, surveillance footage and interview everyone on duty that night. What if they could recreate the portal? Would they be thrown into the skies over Eorzea like their Director had? That is, of course, precluding the possibility of sabotage. Hope had been pushed forcefully through that portal, so had it been an elaborate scheme to remove him from office? Why not just kill him instead?

Back in the real world, he shakes his head free of such troubling thoughts and concentrates on the lively surroundings of Elysian’s main hall. It had been transformed in lieu of celebration and turned into an open-plan area bedecked in colourful paper streamers and lined on one side with tables bearing an array of party food. Eorzeans don’t celebrate the day a child is born as is customary on Pulse, but mark the occasion of name-giving instead. Curiously, Pahn'a had recently informed him that it could be quite some time after they’d been brought into the world. Namedays instead of birthdays – both different and familiar.

With everyone in such high spirits, it’s a joy to watch them so carefree and relaxed. Knowing the hardships adventurers go through to keep their realm safe, Hope is honoured to be a part of their lives; that they’d accepted him so readily and continue to involve him. Pahn'a is by his side, glancing over the party atmosphere with a watchful eye – a responsible leader even in times of celebration – and yet there’s one person so obviously missing here. Hope hasn’t seen her in three days; not since she’d appeared at the house to deliver a basket of bread rolls and have a quiet discussion with Pahn'a. A paranoid man would think Coco is actively avoiding him, though Hope’s more realistic than that. At least, that’s what he believes.

In danger of drifting once more, he glances over at the front door just in time to see it edge open and introduce a red-haired woman into the house. She’s wearing a sheer white halterneck dress that barely reaches the wooden floor and adheres to every curve of her body with avaricious zeal. Embroidered crimson roses scale upwards along one thigh and stop short of a broad sash cinched in around the waist, plain apart from a slender band of gold. The woman’s auburn hair is tied into a chignon knot and she’s balancing a laden cake board in one hand with a drawstring bag hanging from the other. Staring much harder than is polite, Hope’s mind is emptied of all cognisant thought.

“Is that Coco?” he murmurs rather unintelligibly.

“Why yes, Silver. I do believe it is,” Pahn'a drawls amusedly at Hope’s side. “Who’d have thought an actual woman exists underneath all of that armour and the heavy responsibilities of a paladin, hmm.”

Amused at the sardonic retort, Hope smiles softly as he watches Coco greet her friend and hand over the presumed nameday gift in that cloth bag. Lhei, wearing a grin much too large for her face, empties the contents out into her hands and takes a moment to look over them, momentarily launching herself at the other woman in a hug. It’s sweet but almost comical – a diminutive Miqo'te barely able to wrap her arms around a much taller Elezen’s waist, laughing gleefully all the while. They fall into conversation but even at this proximity Hope can see the restraint in Coco’s expression, anxiety tainting that gentle countenance. Eventually she hands the stacked cake board over to another Elysian member standing close by.

“Well, it seems our favourite Elezen has decided on her path after all,” Pahn'a says, leaning back against the wall and taking a mouthful of ale from his tankard. He meets Hope’s inquisitive look with bright and mirthful eyes. “Oh, don’t worry about it. She will most assuredly explain herself when it’s time since you are somewhat involved.”

Opening his mouth to offer up a following statement, Hope falters when Coco turns and starts heading in their direction, one hand hitching up the dress so she can walk at speed. Something dark lurks in those emerald eyes and furrows her brow into a tense frown becoming deeper as she closes the distance between them. A brief glance at Hope and then she moves to Pahn'a, leaning in close.

“Has anything happened?” Coco whispers tersely, smoothing her dress and trying to appear calm. To anyone learned in body language such as both men standing right there it’s obvious she’s anything but. “What about Lhei? Is she managing?”

“No incidents and Lhei is doing just fine. I’ve made sure Pindon is with her at all times but, well, that’s not exactly odd given their on-again, off-again relationship.” Pahn'a takes another sip of ale and pauses, weighing up the mood. “He’s the prudent choice of watchman due to his profession but he threatened to tell her. I barely managed to convince him otherwise.”

“Wait, are you telling me Lhei doesn’t know?” Coco exclaims in a harsh whisper, “But she – ”

“She will do the exact opposite of whatever I tell her. You know how headstrong she is. That’s something you two have in common.” Pahn'a glances over Coco’s shoulder at people enjoying themselves at the party and back onto her again. He stands upright and deposits his tankard on a side table. “And you need to calm down,” he intones flatly.

“Calm down?” she growls under her breath, bristling with anger, “You do remember what I saw, right? A dead man, killed in broad daylight. Whoever is doing this, they’re becoming emboldened with each kill. I don’t want anything to happen to her.”

Pahn'a reacts in a single fluid movement, cupping Coco’s face in his hands and staring straight into her. Witnessing the whole ordeal Hope feels awkward at their closeness. He can only watch impassively, pretending at normalcy and wearing a veneer of amused interest at their exchange for everyone else in the room.

“And you believe I would allow that?” Elysian’s leader hisses coldly, refusing to let go. “This is not helpful. Get your emotions in check or so help me, Coco, because we needs must to be strong for Lhei.” He sighs regretfully, hands slipping down onto the woman’s shoulders and squeezing tight. “Look, just enjoy yourself at the party tonight and don’t worry about Lhei. That’s my job and I am content to do it alone. You need not protect everyone all of the time. What did you bring for us?”

Coco looses a troubled sigh. “I bought Lhei a box of peppermint ice and a star sapphire necklace she’s been harping on about for moons. Since I got home this morning, I’ve only had time to bake muffins. Spiced pear and apple with cinnamon.”

“Good enough for me,” Pahn'a says and backs away from her. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’m going to do a perimeter check that looks suspiciously like a series of social interactions.” He turns to Hope, head slightly angled and flattens both eyebrows. “Much to my chagrin, I’ll safely assume you two will be happy in each other’s company and leave you to it. Don’t forget to have fun.” And then Elysian’s leader is heading away from them, feline tail swishing as he walks.

“Good evening Hope.” Coco looks down at her hands and then out over the throng of adventurers enjoying themselves at the party. “How are you tonight?”

Even when realisation hits that he’s staring again, Hope can’t look away. If Coco does indeed have the mind of a scholar and the heart of a knight, she also has the outward appearance of a very beautiful woman. It surprises him. To think, these curves had been there this whole time, buried underneath metal armour and loose-fitting shirts in soft earthy tones. Hope clears his throat quietly before responding, even more taken aback at the sudden warmth saturating his face.

“I’m quite well, thank you. Elysian has been keeping me busy with all sorts of things, for which I’m grateful.”

“Pan likes to do that. Keep people busy.” Coco turns then, those dark green eyes widening when she notices he’s already looking at her. “Ah. So, would you like a drink, perhaps? I could use – I mean, I’d like one. And something to eat as well.”

They’re both standing towards the back of the open-plan hall a while later, eating party food from thin wooden plates. Hope had taken a selection of everything both sweet and savoury, but he notices there are only vegetarian options on Coco’s platter. He makes a mental note to ask about that some day, watching the delicate way she consumes her meal out the corner of his eye. It’s peaceful back here. Everyone else is crowded around a small stage upon which a band is performing upbeat melodies whilst Pahn'a meanders around; his yellow-eyed gaze everywhere and nowhere at once.

Though barely a foot away from Coco, Hope can sense something amiss in the tense set of her posture. She seems nervous and distracted, gripped by some kind of awkward silence. Should this be Academia then Hope would have understood. He’d never had anyone accompany him to dinner – formal or otherwise – and Coco would have drawn all kinds of attention hidden away with him in a corner, but not here in Eorzea. Their situation is almost reversed. Wondering at that and somewhat amazed at his own boldness, Hope makes an educated guess.

“Would you rather we sit outside in the garden and talk?” he asks tentatively. “It’s a warm and pleasant evening.”

Coco nods, dropping the half-eaten pastry swirl onto her plate and sighing, “Sorry Hope. I’m not the best participant at parties. I generally don’t manage too well surrounded by large amounts of people. Comes with growing up in the Orn Wild.”

And then she leads him out of the hall, through the darkened kitchen and out into cool twilight air. Holding the hem of her floor-length dress above the grass, she crosses over to a glowing blue fountain and sits down upon a bench, leaving just enough room for Hope. Seated next to Coco a moment later, he can barely conceal the surprised gasp as she shuffles towards him; the barest touch of one long Elezen thigh notable as their first moment of lucid contact. She shivers once and then settles, a slight tremble quaking through her.

“You’re still nervous around me,” Hope notes, feeling her warmth leak through their closeness. She nods. “Don’t be, Coco. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m just an everyday person interested in learning who very much enjoys talking with you.”

“Except you’re not,” she says in a hushed voice. “You’re the famous Director of the Academy and belong to another world.”

Hope sighs dejectedly then. The entire gamut of reasons Coco could embrace and she chooses that detestable veneration of his job title – a false worship of something he only pretends to be. Very few people care about the real man, hidden underneath years of corporate training and that conditioned work persona. Perhaps it’s not too late and he can rescue her.

“No.” He gathers courage and moves closer, pressing their thighs together. Coco’s sharp inhalation of breath matches Hope’s tight knot of anticipation within. “This is Eorzea,” he says, shoving back his own nerves. “There is no Academy here, so I’m exactly what I appear to be. Which is to say, a bewildered and slightly lost feeling man, wondering precisely why I ended up on your beautiful world. And besides, we agreed no formality between us, remember? I’m just Hope to you, Coco. Please.”

She turns to face him, eyes flicking upward to meet his. “I’m sorry. You must hate that like I hate being called Ser Delouix.”

“Indeed.” Hope smiles as warm relief spreads through, blossoming the need to bring Coco out of that negative mien. “You can blame Pahn'a for teaching me that. He painted this picture of you as a valorous and honourable knight, a true defender of the people with a tenacious grasp on morality. This was before we met at your house too. It intimidated me to no end.”

“Did he really do that?” Coco laughs softly as Hope affirms with a nod. “Tenacious, yes. Not sure about the rest though.”

“Oh, I believe he was accurate. Yet he left out kind-hearted and curious, so I heard from other Elysian members.”

Coco’s mouth opens and then closes as she glances downward, distractedly splaying both sets of fingers upon her lap. The tiniest of smiles curls up on the nearside of her mouth and that gesture inspires the same in Hope, setting his mind to wander. _At least she looks happy now_ , he muses cheerfully. _That was merely the truth but why does it feel like I’m flirting?_

A hush falls over both of them then. The only audible sounds are a chirping of nocturnal insects and the gentle lapping of water from a fountain carved into the shape of some colossal sea serpent. It’s made entirely from pewter stone studded with aquamarines and blue agate that glimmers with a rippling radiance; from crystals of water aether, Pahn'a had taught him one morning. Coco is gazing softly at Hope as he turns his attention back towards her. Caught off-guard in such fashion, his heart lurches. He can’t help but think how odd their connection is and how often he’s tried to explain it to himself.

Deep down, in spite of everything he’d had to be in Academia, the Director had still found women attractive and admired certain ones from a distance. It’s just that he’d separated himself off from emotional and physical attachment; pouring himself into work and that never-ending demand of averting an apocalypse. It had been much easier that way. Easier, and a sufficient defence mechanism. But here in Eorzea – feeling the warmth of this particular woman pressed against his thigh, knowing everything she’d done for him, exploring the depths of those captivating green eyes – Hope feels that resolve weakening. He swallows hard and savours every breath of air, allowing these new sensations to linger undisturbed.

“That’s Leviathan, the great ocean primal,” Coco says, mouth curling up into a wry smile. “I’ve never really understood why sculptors would create such a thing. A beautiful magnificent thing, but an homage to a being that has killed hundreds of people in his sporadic existences? It seems, I don’t know, gruesome.”

“A primal?” Hope asks, haunted by the latter half of Coco’s statement. “Are they some kind of elemental spirit?”

“Were they not in the adventuring book Pan gave you?” Her eyebrows arch at his negative response. She explains that they’re bestial monsters made real by the aether-fuelled prayers of oppressed peoples; moulded and shaped to carry out a collective will. But the part that disturbs Hope most of all is the resemblance to Pulse’s fal'Cie – a physical construct built around a crystal core, sentient and cold-hearted. He asks what Leviathan represents and why he was brought into being.

Coco plays with her fingers distractedly. “I’m probably not the best person to ask, since I’m so heavily opinionated against the Lominsans right now, but are you sure?” Hope nods and watches her, having learned what happened on that overseas venture some time ago. He listens intently to her tale of retribution for a semi-aquatic race persecuted by land-dwellers.

“Titan, the earth primal, is much the same in that manner,” she sighs eventually and smooths out a wrinkle in her dress. “He was summoned chiefly to protect his people, the kobold that live beneath the mountains of Vylbrand. Honestly, it’s sad. How many innocent lives could have been saved with some understanding and a few compromises? Far too many I believe.”

Hope exhales softly and feels the impact of that question. He’d asked it too on countless nights plagued with insomnia, wondering if he could have changed the past in such a fashion. After so long you realise it’s a fruitless effort and that time is better spent concentrating on the present; to ensure the future is what you want it to be. Still, Hope had never imagined this very scenario, impossibly far removed from everything he’d held important.

“Compromise is difficult if it involves handing victory over to your enemy, Coco. Even if it does bridge understanding.” Hope glances across at her and finds those eyes waiting again, large and full of irresistible curiosity. He smiles, pleased that they’re out here alone and not separated by her friend for once. “I’d imagine your paladin’s oath involves some measure of that.”

“Kind of and yet not quite,” Coco sighs at length, her face angling away slightly and returning with a crooked smile. “Unless I encounter another paladin whose values somewhat resemble my own, it invariably ends in me trying to be much more intimidating than I actually am or being forced to fight. But I don’t like to take lives and I endeavour not to should the opportunity arise. That’s rare in Eorzea, so I’m told, and people view it as a weakness. Even more so because I’m a woman.”

Hope leans closer to Coco and their shoulders touch. “Clemency is never a weakness, and see. You really are honourable.”

“I suppose,” she huffs amusedly, “Though I can’t ever imagine you taking a life either, despite what you told me about being a thaumaturge at some point. It’s funny to think that you and Pan have that in common when … well, you know. Contrast.” Coco smiles and he laughs softly, understanding perfectly. “You have a kind heart, Hope. Full of goodness and light.”

“Not so, actually. It’s dark and full of chaos,” Hope states. Coco scowls at him curiously, her interest sufficiently piqued. “Contrary to how your goddess Hydaelyn symbolises light, our Pulsian goddess Etro represents the darkness. In my world chaos is the personification of free-will amongst humanity and meant to balance both aspects of our universe, but that’s about as rudimentary an explanation you’ll get. It’s much more intrinsic than that.”

There’s a moment frozen in time as they regard each other and then Coco is looping her arm through Hope’s, leaning into him bodily. Assailed with so many sensations at once, he can only inhale sharply and swallow down mute astonishment. Breathing in that aromatic scent of her perfume and soaking up the warmth of their contact, his own heart races within. That Coco could do this – surrender every ounce of trust unto Hope in such a way – humbles him greatly. She’s unguarded right now; as vulnerable as a paladin could ever be in a sheer silk dress without her customary sword and shield.

Coco’s gaze dips downward at his sudden reaction and she moves to withdraw, but Hope tucks his arm in and forestalls the exit. Unspoken affirmation passes between them in the ensuing smoulder of that stare. He would never have allowed this in Academia. Extensive security detail existed to prevent physical contact ever happening because there it had meant something – an intrusion; an unwelcome distraction or a gross invasion of the Director’s personal space. After all that Coco had done for him, how could Hope deny her?

“I’d love to hear about chaos,” she says with keen interest. “Pure darkness here is different. It’s the opposition of good.”

Compelled to prove otherwise after such a leading statement, Hope starts from the beginning. Humanity is gifted a measure of chaos in each individual’s heart upon birth, he explains, whilst death sees it returned to an unseen realm apart from the physical world. Chaotic darkness, enriched over so many countless generations, is reprocessed into new life; continuing the cycle of existence in a carefully-held balance. In too great a concentration it’s an infectious reality-warping substance, but the small amount bequeathed to each person is relatively safe. Once the story is told he watches eagerly for her reaction.

“Chaos and aether,” Coco says with some amount of wonderment. She’d been listening so attentively that whole time, never once interrupting and lightly clutching onto Hope’s arm. “That our worlds could be so very different and yet at the most basic level we’re the same. You’re the scientist, Hope. Tell me how you’d even begin explaining all of th– ”

Coco’s expression slowly changes after her voice dies; those green eyes widening and staring off into the darkness. Through their physical contact he can feel the tension in her muscles, stiffened resolutely like she believes any movement would shatter the twilight atmosphere. Even her breath stills into nothingness as Hope frowns in concern, uneasy at the rapid shift.

“Someone is watching us,” Coco whispers whilst her focus is pinned on a distant corner of the garden. That harrowed countenance further deteriorates into cold terror and the breathing returns once again, albeit with a panicked quickness. Heavy silence chokes the cool night air and they’re both quelled into petrified statues, listening for the faintest sound. There’s a sudden burst of disturbed foliage and Coco recoils, shrinking against Hope’s side as he jumps in sheer empathy.

“Who was it?” he asks, impelling his voice into a calm tone. If a woman like Coco is terrified it must be a very real threat.

“The shadow from Ul'dah,” she breathes in a barely perceptible murmur. “I felt that same darkness. Watching. What if … what if it’s not after Lhei but … no, the note said her name. Not mine. Both of us then? But what have I done to earn that?”

Pained at the sight of Coco raked through with dread, Hope squeezes her forearm in an effort to soothe some of that fear. Through everything he’d learned about her, he knows this is uncharacteristic; a rare splinter piercing the armour of a brave woman’s composure. If it’s within his power to provide her some measure of comfort, then there’s no question at all.

“Come on,” Hope says and gently rises from the stone bench, easing Coco up with him. “Let’s go inside and tell Pahn'a.”

They stand still for a few seconds, with Coco trembling against him as she covertly scans around the garden. In that moment, Hope suddenly feels outraged on her behalf. No good-hearted person deserves to be stalked by craven shadows like this, much less one who devotes herself to safeguarding others. He resolves to defend Coco somehow, despite the ridiculous notion of doing so; a man with no combat prowess here in Eorzea undertaking that vow to protect a paladin, of all things.

She had saved Hope’s life with no hesitation, never once giving up on his plight. The least he can do is try to help. Can’t he?


	13. « Silent Arbour – The Southern Shroud, Eorzea │ day twenty nine »

After what had seemed like an eternity Coco feels a profound sense of freedom out here in the forest. Ever since that night of Lhei’s nameday party – when she’d caught a shadow lurking in the undergrowth and had panicked – people have kept a close watch on her. The episode had been an uncharacteristic lapse fuelled by lack of sleep and an effervescent barrage of different emotions playing on her mind, but truth be told, that night isn’t the first time it had happened. There has been a slow creep of occurrences just like it; bursts of self-doubt and deep gnawing sensations of anger or fear sweeping through like a brisk wind. So used to isolating herself off from others, Coco had been able to successfully hide the evidence away.

Not this time though. She’d allowed herself that moment of weakness huddled up against Hope and then fate had punished her, making him a witness to that particular downfall. He hadn’t left her alone after the garden incident, which in itself hadn’t been a terrible outcome, but once Pan found out the true ordeal really began. Coco had literally been forced to sleep over at the Elysian house where she’d be under constant watch, wearing that stupid frivolous dress purchased in Ul'dah; another lapse of judgement summarily regretted in light of the consequences it brought along. Paladins just don’t wear silk.

The following morning she’d been allowed to return home and remain there, but with an escort constantly watchful in the background. Hope’s visits made incarceration much easier to bear. They’d enjoyed afternoon tea and whatever Coco had baked that morning – fruity oatmeal traybakes, a coconut meringue pie and cream-filled horns being some examples – seated in the garden, enjoying fresh air and conversation. Hope’s enthusiasm hadn’t diminished after glimpsing Coco’s apparent weakness; in fact he seemed even more keen to spend time together. Whether engendered by some sense of obligation or on Pan’s instruction, she didn’t know. Grandfather had taught Coco never to question providence.

After a week of prying Elysian eyes though, she had finally cracked. People should be guarding Lhei and not a paladin capable of protecting herself. They didn’t need to waste time watching over Coco and she’d told them thus, but Pahn'a isn’t easily swayed. His tenacity outlined the threat a mere shadow could represent if he felt that strongly, and it reinforced his earlier proclamation that Coco would be safer as a full-time Elysian member. He had pushed and she’d pulled, resulting in the pre-dawn execution of an escape plan. Ultimately successful, but at what later cost?

To make matters worse, there’d been another murder since Lhei’s party. Confirming fears that Coco’s list of names may actually be authentic, a Highlander in Ul'dah had been the latest victim. Snapped neck, body ditched in a backstreet slum. Rumour circulated that she’d belonged to some covert organisation but the outcome had been beyond all doubt. Her name had been top of the list and now Coco is on the trail of the next victim, a Wood Wailer based in Quarrymill called Aubinaux Glivonde. No-one in the hamlet has seen him for three days since his last patrol.

Shifting uncomfortably in Rhongo’s saddle, Coco takes in the forest around them and breathes clean wholesome air in deep draughts. Despite trusting in her own abilities she’d given in to uncertainty and dressed in full mythrite plate for this venture – helm and all. Not the stoutest armour but it’s adequate for deflecting arrows and glancing blows should bandits happen to cross her path. Coco is just relieved to be alone at last with no-one around to suffocate her beneath that blanket of unnecessary concern. If only the lingering phantom of guilt would disappear too. She’d escaped her Elysian’s all-encompassing gaze, after all.

Rhongo hops up onto a fallen oak barricading the trail and travels along it, wings spread to balance himself. He takes the scenic route, passing by blue-tinged roselings and rotund ochu poised to catch vilekin at the riverside. Azure and white flashes of colour break up the waxen bands of shrubbery as antelope canter through. Eventually both chocobo and rider approach Toto-Rak’s ancient door, manned now by a representative of the Adventurers’ Guild and an Elezen Wood Wailer. Coco stops to inquire about Aubinaux but neither of these men have heard anything new. Just that he’s vanished, echoing the testimonies of everyone she’d already interviewed at Quarrymill.

Setting off again, they head through a murmuring stream and around a cobbled stone wall to arrive at the tiny hamlet of Buscarron’s Druthers. Hitching Rhongo to the stable opposite the three-storey alehouse building, Coco shields her eyes from sunshine’s bright glare and looks up into the sky. Rolling in from the east is a squall of dark clouds creeping across the expanse of clear blue; possibly a thunderstorm given today’s balmy temperature. She nods amiably to a nearby stablehand and departs, walking across the hamlet in several long strides.

One foot upon the alehouse steps, a large wooden notice board catches her eye. Upon it are job adverts and random notes pinned to the cork backing, but one particular scrap of paper attracts Coco’s attention. It’s a local bounty order with a colossal reward of a hundred-thousand gil, offered regardless if the target survives or not. She pulls it free and heads inside, either way determined to get answers that could lead to apprehending Eorzea’s latest serial killer.

“Well, bugger me. Look what we ‘ave ‘ere,” the grizzled man behind the bar grins as he catches sight of her. It’s hardly a surprising incident. Grizzled old Buscarron remembers every notable customer he’s ever served and always greets them thus. Adventurers, bandits, Wood Wailers, roaming Keeper males – all of them on equal footing in this place, free from prejudice and racial hatred. The only sentiment this proprietor cares about is that people are merry beneath his rafters and of course, drinking fine homebrewed ale.

“Good morning,” Coco greets him and removes her helm, shaking the long tail of auburn hair free. She sets the horned metal headpiece down onto the bar and takes a seat. “How’s life treating you?”

“Can’t complain lass. Bit o’ bother with a few bandits who ain’t local but nowt much we can do about that.”

“You mean this one?” she says, sliding the bounty note between them. “The reward is unusually high.”

“Aye,” Buscarron grunts, “Ain’t Adders nor Wailers can get aught from folk round here on account o’ being terrified o’ revenge an’ the like. It’ll make sense if you see ‘im. Big boneheaded pirate somehow lost ‘imself and 'is crew in our leafy green part o’ the realm. Get you a drink?” Coco shakes her head and thanks him. “You 'ere to claim it then?”

“I’m afraid not, though you may be able to help me in another matter.” She leans closer over the bar, mindful of keen ears behind her. “I’m looking for a man named Aubinaux Glivonde. He’s a Wood Wailer stationed at Quarrymill and I believe he’s in serious danger, so any information on his whereabouts could end up saving his life.”

Buscarron taps the bounty order and turns it right side up, his face dropping into a grimace. “Too late I reckon. Just a guess, but 'ere is where you’ll find answers. If it ain’t in 'ere or the yard out back I tend to stay out o’ people’s business, but they were outside day before last, shoutin’ up a storm. Sommat to do with a debt owed. Threw a few punches at each other. Last time I saw the Wailer lad alive. I reckon 'e fell foul of that bandit’s crew and is rottin’ in a ditch gods know where.”

Coco stares at the scribbled scrap of paper and wonders at that statement’s accuracy. Perhaps the killer had been clever enough to take advantage of an altercation they’d witnessed and steered blame directly to someone else. What if this bandit is the actual killer? Is it related to the shadow she’d seen in Elysian’s garden? And all of this hinges on Aubinaux being dead in the first place. Maybe he’s just lost in the woods, dazed and confused somewhere. With a complete lack of evidence all Coco can do is speculate and report these meagre findings to the Twin Adders’ ongoing investigation.

She sighs ruefully, feeling sick inside at failing Lhei once again. Every dead body is a step closer to oblivion for the little healer – and perhaps Coco’s too – with her name scrawled on that hit list of seemingly random individuals.

“Sorry lass,” Buscarron says with a genuine frown. Like a crack of thunder there’s a sharp impacting sound from outside and Coco turns to see a Midlander fall roughly to the ground beyond the threshold. He cowers in a ball before a Sea Wolf even bigger than Elysian’s Rhylaren appears and viciously kicks the poor man in the stomach, laughing uproariously throughout the incident. Behind Coco the barkeep curses, “Ah bollocks. Reckon 'ere’s yer bandit leader, right on time.”

“That’s him, without doubt?” she asks, coiling her hair into a bun and replacing the horned helm solidly. Her fingers enclose around Almace’s hilt and the other hand retrieves Ancile, setting it into her gauntleted grasp.

“Aye, but don’t throw your life away on this, lass! I’ll fetch the Wailers,” Buscarron shouts after her, but Coco’s already out of the door. In the open air and away from the alehouse’s merrily burning hearth, it’s a lot colder. High above, the once clear sky is deep purple now and threaded with sheet lightning arcing through the clouds. She raises her sword and points it at the Sea Wolf, forcing him a few steps back. Her heart is racing with adrenaline already pumping hot at the confrontation. Apart from being oath-bound to protect the innocent, she wants answers from this man. Answers that could save Lhei.

For a few moments they merely stand there like statues. Coco’s appraising gaze passes over every detail she sees fit to memorise : a calculating stare implying hidden intelligence, the way he leans heavily on his left foot, those clenched fists and that massive broadaxe strapped to his back, light leather armour ill-fitting his considerable girth and gaping open at the joints. Observation suggests he’s a buccaneer and rock-steady on those feet if he’s fought at sea. Coco’s own stance gives nothing away as she’d been taught long ago. Yielding early advantage over opponents is an amateur’s mistake.

“Shove yourself out of my way and I’ll consider not killing you, little dove,” he barks. The man’s voice is gravelly like a landslide of pebbles, but surprisingly not cleft with a seafarer’s parlance. Coco remains rigidly still. “No? So be it then. You’ll be my first paladin. Always wanted one of those since I was a young lad.” The giant man turns around to his group of jeering bandits and shouts out, “None of you scrags interfere unless you want to be a head shorter tonight.”

Casting a quick glance over them, Coco see the familiar bend of longbows slung across each man’s back. _Oh look, archers. Your favourite thing_ , she complains within the safety of her consciousness. _Just what kind of pirates are these anyway? Did he recruit them from local poachers and criminal gangs?_

She breathes deep and slow, willing a rational calm to flow through the recent cracks in her confidence. Somewhere in the recesses of her pre-battle preparation, Coco tries to calculate how long it would take the Wood Wailers to get here from Quarrymill if Buscarron had already sent for them. Half a bell at least, given that they even bother to believe him. That puts her beyond any conveniently timed intervention without serious stalling. No, this veritable trial by fire she has to face alone.

“I don’t want to fight,” Coco states in a crisp tone, knowing it’s already pointless to talk him out of combat. Since he believes her both outnumbered and outmatched it’s obvious that’s never going to happen. “If you force my hand, however, trust that I won’t yield until one of us is defeated. There’s no shame in surrender if it preserves your life.”

The Roegadyn pulls the broadaxe from his back, leaning upon it casually. It’s almost every ilm of Coco’s six fulm height. “All this posturing for one lousy stranger and a bunch of cowards hiding behind hamlet walls? Whatever sweetness, no can do. You can have my name instead of my surrender though. It’s Rhotskyf the Realmshaker.”

Undeterred but feeling those pre-fight nerves now, Coco demands, “Did you harm Aubinaux Glivonde, the Wood Wailer you were seen in an altercation with two days hence?”

Rhotskyf bellows a deep and chilling laugh. “Aye! I harmed him. Would you like to see the notch his spine left on my axe as I cleaved clean through it?” He leans over and strokes the battered half-moon blade with a finger, pointing. “Right here.”

Coco catches him slowly extending one hand down the haft and reads that intention almost instantly, waiting until he commits into a swing before side-stepping. _Gods but he’s fast_ , she tells herself, deliberating upon his next move as the axe spins past. _Do not let that thing hit you!_ Momentum carries Rhotskyf forward a few steps – a telling handicap – but then he whirls around furiously, levelling the axe blade at Coco’s head.

Again she easily anticipates that attack and ducks beneath it, careful to avoid straightening up too soon in case he attempts to swing a backhanded punch. Her fingers tighten firmly around Almace’s hilt. There’s a fleeting fear about Ancile’s capability to deflect such a massive weapon before the Roegadyn is launching himself at her, club-like fist first. Coco parries and spins low to the ground, slashing across the exposed knee of his left leg.

Blood soaks the dry-baked earth as inclement weather starts to crowd in, roiling high above in deep booming rumbles. Rhotskyf doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he faces her and grins. Coco feels blind hatred stabbing at her back, because now she’s at a disadvantage; the crew of archers are directly behind, lined up in her blind spot and conveniently placed to fill her with arrows. It’d only take one simple gesture and she’d end up an Elezen pincushion.

“Feel it do you, little dove?” Her opponent spits onto the ground and sneers. “The fear. The trepidation. Oh, some of them will deflect but there’s always that chance one arrow will find the sweet spot, right between your shiny armour plating.”

She tries to angle around but Rhotskyf shakes his head, blocking her off on all sides. Stillness prevails for a tense moment before the heavens open and rain spatters down. Lightning flashes overhead. The Roegadyn strolls casually towards her and brandishes the axe, hefting it effortlessly as if it weighs nothing at all. And then he races forward at a sprint, moving incredibly fast for someone of his size. Coco only just dives out of the way in time.

Heart thundering wildly, she hears the twang of multiple bowstrings and instinctively throws her shield arm up to deflect as many as possible. Sheets of condensation strike the dusty ground as Coco crouches down to minimise her surface area. She only just catches a glimpse of Rhotskyf lowering into a bull’s charge before gathering herself beneath Ancile and bracing for that impact. A deluge of arrows hammers against the ornate shield as Coco strains to hear through the cacophony, using Rhotskyf’s booming footsteps as a countdown for that crushing broadaxe. _One. Two. Three_ …

But the anticipated fourth vibration never comes. Coco’s mind races, grasping for an answer. _Surely he would have taken that opportunity. Unless he’s building momentum!_ If that axe blade strikes her at a decent velocity she’ll be lucky to get up at all. Throwing her shield arm out as a temporary distraction, she draws Almace back and stiffens her right arm, thrusting the sword upwards at a sharp angle. It buries deep into his right shoulder, lodged in place by solid muscle tightening around the blade. Disarmed, Coco falls backwards. Now she panics, glancing across the battlefield for a replacement weapon.

“Why … won’t you just … die?” Rhotskyf roars, ripping Almace out of his shoulder. Crimson spurts out of the wound and runs thickly down his dull leather jerkin in fat pumping rivers. “You will, dove. I’ll stick you … with your own pretty little sword.”

Rhotskyf brandishes the axe in one hand and Almace in the other, offering up the unpleasant choice of blunt trauma or a piercing death. Coco knows her sword will slice through mythrite plate like a hot knife through butter and so she’s forced to make a gamble in that split-second of a pause.

He could have been bluffing – could easily extinguish her life in a fractional blur if this goes wrong – but she’s silently counting on his bloodthirsty rage. Axe hand draws back, sword hand lunges forward aimed at her heart. At the very last moment Coco pivots and slams the sharpened edge of Ancile down onto Rhotskyf’s wrist in a moment of miraculous timing. She barely has chance to thanks her guardian spirit before the half-moon axe careens into her side.

Pain flares like molten lava as crushing fangs of agony melting rivers through flesh and bone. Even when Coco is thrown through the air by sheer momentum, arrows cascade down past her as if in slow motion. She lands heavily upon her injured flank, eyes streaming and choking for a breath. Silence fills her tortured mind. South Shroud is a blur of echoed sound and rain-spattered hues punctuated with the scent of wet soil and spilled blood.

Rhotskyf looms like an enraged bear, descending heavily and flattening Coco beneath his massive bulk. Almace is gone. That wrist she’d slammed is a broken mess of splintered bone and blood, streaming out in pumping bursts. Nausea lurches in her stomach even as blackness engulfs her consciousness, stippled occasionally with brilliant pinpricks of light.

She feels the weight lessen briefly and gapes, catching a tiny gulp of air before Rhotskyf’s primed fist hammers into her shoulder. Denied even the opportunity to cry out in audible pain, Coco can only writhe impotently as her head lists to one side. That same impact again with unflinching accuracy and she almost feels bones in her shoulder disintegrating. Through the encroaching darkness, she sees blurry-edged arrows lodged into the damp earth.

Fading in and out, Coco waits until he rears back again. Summoning every last reserve of energy, she throws herself to one side and curls a finger round a red-tufted arrow half-buried in sand-coloured ground. Thrown off-balance, Rhotskyf punches the ground instead, allowing Coco one precious mouthful of air. Renewed vigour grants that second she needs to retrieve the arrow and ram it fully into his skull.

Death seizes the bandit leader rapidly but then he’s a literal dead weight crushing the much slighter paladin and drowning out her empty cries for help. As colour bleeds out of the world, the very last cognisant thought on Coco’s mind is of what Hope will do when he learns of her fate. She sighs breathlessly and fades into darkness, his beautiful oceanic eyes gazing down at her from inside a memory.


	14. « Elysian Free Company house – The Lavender Beds, Eorzea │ day twenty nine »

As the thunderstorm beyond the window rages so too do Hope’s thoughts. No matter what he can’t shake the notion of being partly responsible for Coco’s condition, especially since he’d shared in that raw crushing pain courtesy of the Echo. Lost in borrowed memories he’d felt her agony and everything had been so real. Hope remembers the rain-spattered earth and sharp sounds intermingled with scent; that unmistakable stench of bloody gore and rank perspiration; a liquid swell of nausea underlining the dangerous mix of foreboding, fear and a looming certainty of death.

With heart-racing intensity, he had fought alongside Coco and soaked in that rush of battle he’d long forgotten since his l'Cie days. Every slash of that beautiful sword was an exhilarating rush. Parries and ripostes, cool stormy air, the tensing of muscles and those thrilling life-or-death calculations done in a nanosecond. He’d felt them all as she had. Coming out of that vision had inspired in Hope a new kind of respect for Coco’s profession. She did all of this and more to protect innocent people, leveraging her own safety so that they might survive.

But now, staring out at the hammering rain, Hope can’t help but recall her very last thought before the darkness. It had been like peering into a mirror, seeing all of these different sentiments and feeling the effect of them in a strange, twisted way. The warmth in his smile had soothed immeasurably; his eyes, so full of intelligence and kindness, had eased a transition into unconsciousness that he didn’t expect to survive. Seeing oneself in such a transposed manner had confused Hope, but of course they’d been Coco’s emotions leaking through the Echo. He’d known instantly then – she has feelings for him.

Forehead resting on the cold glass, Hope exhales and watches the ensuing fog of condensation with idle awareness. He can’t process this sensation inside – an abstract yearning to touch Coco and be physically close to her. Could it actually be true? Had she really chosen him to comfort her at the death’s door? What he had done to deserve such a thing he isn’t certain of. Turning around, Hope observes her asleep on the bed and takes two steps forward, reaching out whilst Lhei is otherwise distracted. His fingers stroke along Coco’s jaw, sending a silent thrill through his heart, and although it seems illicit he needs this to reconcile whatever’s stirring within.

“Hey Silver!” Lhei exclaims in her surprisingly authoritative tone, “Back away from my patient unless you wanna be next.”

Hope retreats sheepishly to the wall but keeps his gaze upon Coco, still peaceful in repose. At least she’s out of danger now due to the healer’s extraordinary talents. Who’d have thought aether could be used in such a way? He’d watched it woven as a thread to stitch wounds and mend broken tissues, each individual fibre at a time.

“Sweet on her, ain’t you?” Lhei dampens a cloth in a nearby bowl of water and dabs it onto Coco’s brow.

“Just concerned,” Hope admits, not wanting to reveal anything in idle hesitation. “Had help not arrived when it did, then I dread to think what could have happened to Coco. She’d have died protecting that man.”

The short woman eyes him with a sly look. “Yeah, whatever you insist darlin’. Good luck gettin’ past her guardian.” Lhei neatens the bedding and tidies away her medical supplies before tenderly brushing loose strands of hair out of the Elezen’s face. Both of them watch Coco begin to stir then, her eyes scrunching softly as she burrows into the pillow.

“Speaking of, I’m gonna fetch the boss since she’s wakin’ up. You got five minutes or so to be – ” Lhei pauses to air-quote with crooked fingers, “ – concerned till all hells break loose. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

After checking her patient is well enough and picking up a basket full of bloodied towels, Lhei leaves the room quietly. Now it’s just the two of them alone in this enclosed space. Hope finds himself nervous in possession of Coco’s stolen thoughts and wonders what will happen when she invariably finds out. But for now her eyes flutter open and fixate upon him, clouded as they are by a fog of confusion.

“Hey. How are you feeling?” he asks, pulling a chair close to the bed. Thunder rumbles ominously beyond the room.

“Terrible,” Coco says, smiling despite her ordeal. He returns the gesture, pleased that she’s feeling well enough to parody their first conversation in such fashion. Her expression turns deathly serious then. “Didn’t expect to survive this, Hope.”

“I know.” He sees the question in her eyes and belatedly realises his mistake. Now he has to confess. “I had a vision as Lhei treated your wounds, Coco. You were defending an innocent man and were forced to fight. I saw and felt everything as – ”

“Everything?” Her eyes widen slightly and Hope nods, well aware of the reason behind that. She glances away. “That was an Echo vision. You were in my memory of that place as a spectator, seeing those moments captured in time. Painful, right?”

Rocked by reverberations of her agony, Hope glances down at Coco’s hand resting on the bedlinen. It’s the one that holds the ornate shield firmly when she fights as a pure-hearted paladin. Pulse thundering through his blood, he reaches out and gently curls his fingers around hers, not entirely sure what’s driving such a bold action. There’s pleasant surprise on Coco’s face when Hope looks up again, anchoring himself in her malachite eyes. Replete with nervousness he forges on.

“Yes. I felt how you were suffocating beneath the man’s weight and shared in that pain. You panicked, not being able to breathe or escape and I thought as you did, hearing that certainty that you’d failed us all somehow, Coco. That isn’t true.”

“I meant afterwards.” Her fingers close around his and squeeze as she smiles. “That displacement after an Echo vision is like having icicles stabbed into your eye sockets. You learn to deal with it eventually. Are you alright though?”

“Me?” Hope says with a frown. “Why are you worrying about that? You almost died, Coco. I’m ashamed to admit I couldn’t do much to help. After everything you did to help me recover and I could only sit here and remember that, feeling useless.”

Her expression softens and she leans back into the pillow, that slight curve of her mouth tying a knot in Hope’s stomach.

“But you did help,” Coco breathes, soaking emotion into each of those words.

Riveted into her dark emerald gaze, he feels an odd sense of peace coast over them both. Outside the thunderstorm rages still but in here it’s calm and tranquil. Hope had never considered he’d find this enjoyable; the unspoken nuance of heated stares and basic physical contact. That’s what this is, after all – something he’d never had time for in Academia. Could it have made life easier and lightened the burden of a looming apocalypse upon one’s soul? Had the Director been remiss there?

The moment is ruined by the door suddenly slamming open and a furious looking Pahn'a storming through. Almost white-hot with intensity, his gaze flicks down onto their enmeshed fingers and then burns into Hope’s eyes, narrowing even further. Despite the raw fury aimed straight at him, Hope stands his ground until Coco draws attention onto herself.

“Pan, I’m sorry,” she says in a light and nervous voice. It’s obvious that she’s scared of a negative reaction either way.

“That’s it?” Pahn'a growls, “Really. You put your life at risk for some random fool who doesn’t give a damn if you live or die and you’re sorry? This is exactly why I forbade you going off alone. You’re reckless. As if I don’t have enough to worry about with Lhei, you go and make everything worse. Do you not care about what could have happened?”

“I don’t think – ” Hope begins to protest but is immediately silenced by a warning finger held in his direction.

“Yes. It’s a shame Coco doesn’t think once in a while. And what’s this?” Pahn'a motions to their hands resting on the bedlinen. It had been a comforting gesture, tainted embarrassingly now by her friend’s anger. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, hmm? Hells, is this why you’re so unpredictably emotional of late, Coco? Go on. Enrage me further.”

Coco’s head droops and she breathes a tense sigh, untangling her fingers from Hope’s. She shrinks into herself in what he surmises is another defence mechanism meant to keep harmful entities at bay, but Pahn'a isn’t that easily thwarted.

“No answer? Whatever, but know this. Your situation just got a whole lot worse. That Maelstrom officer you fended off, he’s been murdered and the grand company have issued a warrant for your arrest. They suspect you had him assassinated.”

“What?” Coco exclaims and sits bolt upright in bed. “That’s ridiculous! You must know I would never do that!” Pahn'a glares at her, heatwaves simmering between them.

“Fortunately, I still have that much faith in you, regardless of this foolhardy behaviour. I secured passage on a cargo ship to Ishgard two days from now, because I can’t settle any of this when you’re running around and endangering your own life. The Maelstrom have no jurisdiction over in Coerthas, so I suggest you take advantage of that and lay low for several weeks.”

“Just who do you think you are?” she demands, clutching her injured shoulder and wincing at the movement. “You’re not my guardian and you can’t just send me off to Ishgard whenever you please. Lhei needs me and – ”

“That’s beyond you now. You’re fortunate she’s such a skilled healer as you’ve a lot of packing to do in a short space of time.” Pahn'a walks over to the door and opens it, glancing over his shoulder. “This time you will do what I tell you, Coco.”

Hope takes one look at her outright devastation and feels unbridled anger burning within. Nothing she had done deserved this. He stands up swiftly and runs out of the door after Elysian’s leader, catching up to him in the hallway. Pahn'a forestalls any exchange with a silencing gesture and instead continues on to his office, the irritated flick of his tail warning against insubordination.

“You’re being too hard on her,” Hope says as he closes the door behind them. The resulting stare aimed at him feels like a firing squad from some old Sanctum propaganda broadcast and he doubts it’s any less effective. Sliding into the chair opposite Pahn'a on the other side of the solid wooden desk, he refuses to be intimidated in this matter though. “She’s emotionally fragile right now.”

“You’d know about that, would you?” Pahn'a glares with unflinching ferocity. “See, I was content to leave you both to it but now look where we are. Given the lack of evidence to refute it, I can only assume what has happened between you.”

“What are you implying?” Hope says, carefully schooling the tone of his voice. “ Surely you don’t think she and I have – ”

“So tell me otherwise, traveller from another world. What great wisdom can you bestow on me about a woman I’ve been close friends with almost twelve years and you’ve had the pleasure of knowing three weeks.” Pahn'a leans back in his armchair and waves dramatically. “Go ahead. Solve this mystery for me in one fell swoop.”

Heartbeat pounding like a bass drum within, Hope broaches the one subject he’s been contemplating for some time now. However unpleasant it is to ask, the resulting answer would clear up some confusion. “Are you in love with her?”

Pahn'a laughs out loud. “Oh, that’s fantastic. You think that’s what this is about? Jealousy.” He leans forward over the desk and folds both arms, wearing a disarming grin. “Unfortunately not. You’re more my type actually, Silver.”

Feeling somewhat ashamed, Hope allows that implication to hang in the air. His own misunderstanding of the two friends’ closeness had indeed coloured his perception of an individual; something he had always sworn to be impartial on.

“So you have no competition from me, in case you’d wondered that.” The other man is watching him carefully, eyes cooled now to a simmering hue of citrus. “I’ve been in love with the same man for over three years and I don’t anticipate a happy ending there. He’s married with a young daughter now, content to ignore what he truly is. But let me outline matters lest you get the wrong idea and feel compelled to wonder anon.”

Standing up from his seat, Pahn'a rounds the desk slowly and walks over to a bookshelf. He runs a finger over the various spines and then selects one particular title, removing it from the shelf and sliding it onto his desk opposite Hope. The title embossed in silver leaf on smoothed blue leather reads : ‘Chivalrous Knights of the True – A History of Paladins.’

“Go ahead. I challenge you to find an individual in that book that hasn’t been cut down before their time. They all tossed away their lives on the great unworthy masses. You are partly correct in your earlier assumption, because I do love Coco. As a friend. What you don’t realise, Silver, is that Eorzea is an extremely dangerous place to live. Oh, it’s easy to believe from your limited experience of the Lavender Beds that I’m making that up, but you’ve been sheltered from the outside world.”

Hope breathes in silently and flips over the front cover, but it’s merely a show of compliance. He knows how fortunate he is because of what Coco had taught him about her realm thus far. “I appreciate that,” he says, “But caging her won’t work.”

Pahn'a sits down on the desk and nods. “No, she’s headstrong but that doesn’t stop me worrying. Her profession and its obsession with saving the innocent repeatedly places her into harm’s way and I can do nothing but sit on the sidelines and watch. Every time she goes off on an adventuring contract I fear it’ll be the last, and that she will die somewhere alone.” He sighs sadly and flattens both ears into a sombre lop. “I’ve lost too many friends, Hope. Seeing Coco broken like that after you told me what happened, I can’t keep dealing with it. One day she won’t come home and I can’t … I won’t lose her.”

“I understand,” Hope says quietly. Going through his own grievance process over the years had solidified that same resolve.

“Do you?” Pahn'a regards him with a thoughtful look. “I could ask the same question, Silver. Are you in love with Coco?”

“Now you’re complicit in our digression away from matters we originally started talking about,” Hope sidetracks deliberately.

Elysian’s leader chuckles. “Clever little thing, aren’t you. ‘No comment’ would have sufficed.” Both men smile at each other in mutual respect for each other’s wordplay. “Let me tell you something. Every man Coco has ever loved harmed her in some fashion. They’ve taken her for granted, lied to her, cheated on her or never really understood how she works, thus abandoned even trying to maintain a relationship. After so many bouts of her crying on my shoulder, I decided to take a more active stance to protect her,” Pahn'a states with a sardonic smile. “It was working amazingly well until you showed up.”

Hope sees the obvious snare and steers away from it carefully. “Then, I apologise for my unfortunate arrival.”

“Wasn’t exactly your fault now, was it?” Pahn'a says with a smirk. “Anyway, you were about to tell me why she’s so upset.”

Taking a deep breath as he prepares to extrapolate on her desperation, Hope sets aside a moment to collect his thoughts. When he does speak he does so carefully and with a mental picture of Coco there to keep him steady. She’s reckless, he explains, due to a lack of ambition and as a coping mechanism for obstacles suddenly appearing in her life. There’s no real time set aside for her to sort through every emotion individually and so they’re all stacked on top of each other; reduced to a single mass of psychological anxiety that makes her unstable.

“But how do you know for sure?” Pahn'a asks eventually with open curiosity. “Coco wouldn’t even tell me these things.”

Sighing with undue emotion, Hope admits, “That was me a long time ago. I recognise the similarities in her behaviour and they resonate, because I reacted in the exact same way. It required support from my friends and a lot of self-determination, but I finally decided on a goal and have spent my whole life since that day dedicated to achieving it.”

Pahn'a scowls thoughtfully. “But Coco already has goals. She’s always busy with something or other.”

“No. She comes across a challenge in the short term and will pour her entire being into fixing it. Does that sound familiar?” Pahn'a nods slowly, his eyes unfocused as he contemplates that fact. Hope continues on. “I behaved just like that to distract myself from the bigger issue. And that was I had no real purpose at that time. I needed to find it within myself.”

“So, beneath all of that subtext, what you’re really trying to say is that I’m endlessly clever in securing both of you passage on that airship instead of just Coco herself. Who better to understand her plight but someone else who has been through it.” Pahn'a weaves his tail back and forth like a contended feline, smirking all the while. “Even I’m not stupid enough to believe there’d be a snowball’s chance in hell that she would simply abandon you here and I’m guessing the same is true in reverse.”

Hope nods, feeling lightness inside. “Had you not already organised that, I would have demanded it as part of her recovery.”

“Yes. Somehow I believe that.” Pahn'a leans closer, cocking his head to one side and frowning. “You’re bound to one another despite my every effort to separate you. Oh, but don’t mistake my intention, Silver. If I learn you’ve harmed Coco in any way, I will personally see to your dismemberment.” He meanders over to a cabinet and retrieves a heavy linen pouch from a drawer. It lands on the desk with a resounding cascade of small metallic objects. “Here. The reward money for slaying the monster that almost killed our beloved paladin.”

“Shouldn’t it belong to Coco?” Hope asks, standing up from the chair. At a guess, there’s a thousand times the meagre amount he’d earned from doing odd jobs around Gridania in order to learn the adventuring trade.

Pahn'a laughs lightly. “One, she’s adamant against accepting rewards related to her oath of protection. A shining example of true chivalry our Ser Delouix is. And two, since I’ve temporarily handed her welfare over to you, I wouldn’t want you to freeze upon arrival in Coerthas and very well fail in that endeavour, would I?”

“Freeze?”

“Yes. As much as I’m certain you two warm automatically in each other’s presence, Ishgard is an awfully cold place. I hope you like snow and ice and the frigid temperaments of Elezen nobility as you’ll be dealing with each of those in equal measure. It may happen that you need Coco’s experience just as much as she needs your … everything.” Pahn'a sighs and regards Hope with a fierce stare, full of emotion a man simply doesn’t voice around another. “Take care of her for me.”

Hope stares back with equal feeling and nods. The heady mix of excitement and anticipation swirls around inside at spending even more time alone with Coco, but he already has plans to lighten her mood. They’d been forged several hours ago – staring forlornly at the Crystarium for an answer.


	15. « Senna’s Pride – The Lavender Beds, Eorzea │ day thirty »

Ancient Shroud legends describe trees so statuesque they are responsible for supporting the very heavens atop their canopies. It is inside these giants – the Heavenspillar named for this purpose – that the forest’s elementals are said to reside, sleeping within heartwood until they’re roused from slumber. Guardians within guardians, watching over denizens of modern-day Gridania as they had for the first Elezen settlers travelling to this land. In Eorzea, history is hidden in plain sight if only one deigns to takes time and appreciate it.

Regarding one such gargantuan tree of legend as her shoulder aches obtusely, Coco feels exhausted and quite despondent. Having risen at the crack of dawn, she’d spent most of the day hauling around piles of insulated clothing and assorted armour pieces, packing them into luggage crates systematically like a child’s jigsaw puzzle. When that particular chore was done, Coco had walked around the manor with a handwritten list of other essential tasks. Then she’d collected bits out of cabinets, gathered from shelves and summoned Anders over from his apartment in Gridania.

Uncharacteristically, her retainer had asked so many questions about the Ishgard trip that it had made Coco somewhat suspicious. She trusts Anders without reservation and it wouldn’t be in his best interest to betray her, but it still seemed odd. The inquisition had done little more than irritate Coco – then in an already prickly mood – and she had gone to hide in the stables with Choux and Rhongo. Soon they’d be separated by hundreds of malms for Nophica knows how long. Weeks, maybe even moons, but at least they’d be looked after in her absence. Anders is a very astute hireling despite that curiosity.

Wondering at the future, Coco takes in a deep breath of nocturnal air and sighs. Up ahead is surely the largest Heavenspillar specimen in all of creation. How much history must these ancient arbours have witnessed in their lifespan? Not that this particular woman makes a habit of sitting here late at night, wiling away precious time on impossible queries. The only reason she’s here at all is because of Hope. Earlier in the day he’d asked Coco to meet him in this exact place, the mysterious gleam in those almond shaped eyes a curious enigma in itself. She hadn’t thought to interrogate his choice of meeting place.

He appears right then, walking up from the Dappled Stalls area wearing his satchel over one shoulder and carrying a large wicker basket. Their eyes meet and he smiles cheerfully.

“Ah! You’re here before me,” Hope notes and comes to a stop beside Coco. Moonlight coruscates over his silver tresses with a delicate sheen. “I’d hoped there’d be time to prepare dinner before you arrived.”

“I can go away and come back later if you’d like.” Coco catches the defensive tone in her voice far too late and stares down at the ground, somewhat ashamed to look at him. As if to punish her transgression, the injured shoulder begins to throb continually in a dull pulse. “Sorry. That didn’t come out how I intended it to, Hope. I’ve just had a long and tiring day.”

“Don’t apologise,” he says. “Dinner will only be half as surprising now but I’m hoping you’ll enjoy it. This way please, Coco.”

Hope leads them to a building right at the very top of the terrain and disappears behind it, the sound of something heavy being moved. She arrives to find a ladder propped up against the wall with her evening companion already halfway up it. Confused but endlessly curious, she scales the wooden steps and emerges onto the outbuilding’s relatively flat roof where Hope has spread a striped cotton blanket. Coco sits down next to him, watching as he organises the basket’s contents before them in a neat arrangement.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he admits, unwrapping a half loaf of bread from some cheesecloth. “However charming the notion of a twilight picnic may have seemed earlier today, I wouldn’t like to do it alone. But I’d have understood if you’d chosen to stay home and catch up on some rest.”

“It’s not eccentric enough that we’re on a roof at night, so we’re having dinner up here. Right?” Coco asks with amusement.

Hope pauses to reward her with an easy smile. “Original if nothing else, wouldn’t you agree? I had considered that you wouldn’t want to be around people given all that had happened and so I chose a location other than the Elysian house. Besides, look at this place. A spectacular panoramic view bathed in moonlight, quiet atmosphere and only one path up here, so we’ll be able to see anyone approaching ahead of time. Even the weather is perfect.” He places a small iced cake onto a platter and closes the basket lid. “I want you to feel safe and relaxed, Coco. In my humble opinion you deserve just that.”

The admission of thoughtfulness warms Coco’s heart and she holds a hand to her chest, grateful that he should care. Hope looks so comfortable and content as he works seated in a cross-legged position atop the blanket. That he’d gone to all of this trouble for her happiness would seem indicative of an ulterior motive, were he any other kind of man. Coco briefly allows herself to entertain the notion of him as something much darker, luring her into isolation and pressing his advantage uncontested. Throat dry and heart racing she wonders how it would feel to pull Hope against her; to taste him inside and stare up into those liquid pools of aquamarine as they –

“So are you hungry?” his voice asks out of nowhere. Innocent concern frames his expression and Coco is eternally grateful for that passing cloud cover hiding the blush of embarrassment in transitory shadow. If only Hope knew how accurate his question had been at that precise moment. What would he think of her? She merely nods, cowed by the implication.

They eat in relative quiet, gazing out over the Lavender Beds’ harmonic blend of nature and residential abodes dappled in moonlight. Dusk’s soft blueness infuses the atmosphere with a calm equanimity, welcome in the face of recent events. Coco stares ahead as she bites into a small savoury pastry and picks apart the different flavours upon her tongue – earthy chanterelle in a cream sauce and a strong note of thyme, but the addition of oregano is odd. It’s such a distinctive taste, almost powerful enough to distract her from the entanglement of emotions within.

Curious, Coco glances across at the subject matter as he’s sitting beside her and absently eating a slice of quiche. This idea of being attracted to Hope has begun to solidify itself into her consciousness, laying the foundation for eventual acceptance. Given what he must have seen in the Echo vision, surely he knows exactly how Coco feels about him. Hope’s observation would be free of her inhibitions and ignorant of the hurtful past she’d suffered, instead seeing that affection at a basal level. She knows just how vivid being inside of someone else’s memory is. Steeped so heavily in Coco’s raw emotions, it would have been impossible for him to ignore that conclusion.

Watching Hope with quiet admiration, she’s conflicted straight down the middle. Moonlight glimmers along each strand of silver hair, outlining just how different he is to an Eorzean man. _Look at him_ , Coco tells herself silently. _Why are you so afraid of admitting your feelings if that’s true? Would he choose to be here alone with you if he didn’t want this?_

Almost as if he’d delved into her thoughts, Hope turns at that precise moment and bridges the gap between them with a softened gaze.

“That’s a pensive look,” he says wistfully after finishing off the quiche. “What are you thinking about right now?”

A cursory pause to weigh up the answer and, “You.”

Hope’s eyes widen in apparent surprise and his mouth parts ever so slightly just as Coco’s pulse begins to quicken at her boldness. In an unexpected twist he breaks the stare and soon busies himself by picking at food on his plate. The reaction is singularly rare because she doesn’t ever recall seeing him shy before. Lost in a haze of distraction, Coco wonders if her wanton behaviour needs to be firmly reined in or allowed to cavort unhindered. Which would do more harm right now? Of those two choices, which has the most desirable outcome?

“Nothing of great interest then,” Hope breathes in a nervous tone.

“You can’t honestly believe that?” Coco asks, reaching for a piece of coffee and walnut cake. It has chopped candied nuts sprinkled all over the aromatic topping – perfect. Trust him to bring a cake that connects them so fundamentally.

“Sometimes. Especially here in Eorzea.” He pours fruit juice from a sealed decanter into a glass and drinks. Coco watches him with a measure of curiosity. That he should be nervous isn’t something she’d expected tonight.

“Everything that defines me in Academia doesn’t apply here, Coco,” Hope continues on. “Even then, not everything the Director of the Academy does defines who I really am as a person. It’s merely a role I have to live up to and in which I have to fulfil expectations set by society itself. Leadership and confidence, acting emotionless as I make decisions on behalf of millions of individual citizens. None of those qualities come naturally to me, but here … ” Hope pauses to take another mouthful of juice and swallows. “I’m even less than that.”

Coco frowns thoughtfully, her mind racing. “But the Academy isn’t here, so you’re not a Director. You told me that yourself. Does that mean you believe you’re a lesser man because of that disparity or does it really mean you haven’t found your purpose in Eorzea thus far?”

He seizes a sharp intake of breath, face tilting up and staring straight ahead. “Perhaps. If I even have a purpose here.”

“Why wouldn’t you? Your knowledge can help so many people, Hope. Even if it doesn’t apply in the exact same way it did, you can still remould it to fit into our world. That’s part of what you do, isn’t it? Research solutions to a problem.”

With a barely perceptible sigh, Hope turns back to her and smiles faintly. “Yes, I suppose it is. Thank you, Coco.”

He looks so desperate that she wants to comfort him somehow; to return that cheerful demeanour he’d arrived with tonight. Thinking hard whilst tidying away her assortment of cutlery and used plates, she decides to share a secret. “You know, that’s not really my name.” His eyebrows perk up in surprise then. “Would you like to know what it is?”

“Yes,” he answers too quickly, eyes seeking hers. Suddenly shy, Coco begins to pick up his empty plates and slide them carefully into the basket too.

“My mother is a Sharlayan noble. They’re given to excessively long names that don’t really carry across into adventuring where one’s reputation is more important than a bloodline.” Aware of the stalling, she glances up to find Hope entranced with an odd expression. “It’s Concordia. Well, technically it’s Lady Concordia Esme Delouix, if my mother had her way. But … it was shortened when I came to Gridania. I eschewed that nonsense the second I left home.”

“Concordia,” Hope breathes with a curving smile, “What a beautiful and auspicious name.”

She laughs nervously. “Perhaps not as symbolic as yours though. I’m guessing there’s a story behind that.”

“One for another, less fragile occasion.” And with that cryptic assertion Hope unfolds his legs, stretching them out before him. He shuffles forwards about a fulm and then lays supine on the blanket, face turned towards the starry heavens. Lounging next to him causes a strange feeling to blossom within Coco’s chest – a longing for tactile intimacy. Gestures of the physical kind are rare for this woman and usually restricted to very close friends, but it’s different with Hope. She finds herself wanting to touch and be close to him; to form a connection between them in order to soothe some hidden urgency.

There is no explanation other than the obvious, of course. Staring up into the heavens under a veil of quiet peacefulness, Coco considers that one fact. A pool of nervous energy is sloshing around in her midriff as she thinks of Hope in such fashion, inserted into amusing fantasies stirred up by memories of home. She can only imagine what mother would do confronted by the shock of her pure-bred Wildwood daughter choosing a Hyuran man as a mate. The poor woman would break into tiny pieces. It’s bad enough that Lady Arianne’s daughter is an adventurer – a sword-wielding knight at that – but even Coco believes that defiance would be one too many.

Noble children are meant to be bred like cattle, after all. They’re for herding into marriage based on such vital tenets as financial affluence, social standing and political leaning. With that heady cocktail of aristocratic foundations, who needs true love anyway? Turning to Hope lying so contentedly at her side, Coco outlines her answer to that particular question. _I do, of course. That life is behind me now and so I get to choose_.

Just like he’d heard the entire silent debate and is about to wade in himself, Hope tears his gaze away from the sky and resettles it upon Coco’s face. Her heart stirs at the sight of those eyes, so erudite and reminiscent of tropical ocean.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” he smiles and places one hand upon his slender chest. “That each star in the blackness of night could be yet another sun, a hundred million light years away from where we are in the vastness of space.” Coco’s unintelligent gawk must betray her ignorance because Hope then extrapolates patiently. “Some of those suns would have planets and moons orbiting them, just like Hydaelyn or Gran Pulse do. Other are alone in their universe or not even suns, but entire galaxies so impossibly distant that they appear as tiny pinpricks of light to us. Either way, stars survive for billions of years.”

“Is that actually true?” Coco asks with overt scepticism. Even those revered Sharlayan scholars who dedicate their existence to astromancy didn’t dare voice such outrageous claims. “You’re telling me that’s really how it is?”

“Almost unbelievable, isn’t it?” Hope smiles with a quiet look of wonder upon his face. “I would never lie to you, Coco. However, I am aware that some things I could teach you would have too great an impact on Eorzea, should they become common knowledge. And yet I can’t resist feeding your curiosity because it’s so very similar to my own.”

Rolling over onto her side to face him, Coco is stricken almost speechless. The implications of Hope’s admission could alter her world forever. Just how much could one man change Eorzea? She swallows a thick lump in her throat, stroking fingers along the blanket’s soft weave as tears brim in her eyes. He shuffles towards her slightly.

“So, our relatively short existence as sentient beings is nothing compared to the vast lifespan of a star. Yet science can only make an educated guess as to how long we’ve existed on our respective worlds, let alone accurately place a sun’s age. I had always wanted to study astrophysics but there was never an opportunity to,” Hope sighs lightly. “Time denied me that.”

“Teach me something else,” Coco pleads with him, barely able to control her emotions. “Anything and everything, Hope.”

And so he talks at length about whatever comes to mind. A deep fascination with archaeology and Pulsian history, his career studies of time and space; the fact that he’s never once cooked a meal in his life. Partway through the lessons, Coco can’t contain her yearning and slides against Hope, resting her head in the crook of his right shoulder. She glances across for belated permission and he simply curls an arm around her upper body. It’s a polarising rush – thrilling and dangerous – but laden with heartache. Soon all of this will be gone when they’re separated by hundreds of malms, alone in different nations.

Coco tries not to focus on that eventuality as Hope is explaining how very different chocobos are on Pulse, but it soon becomes too difficult to bear. She lays a hand on his chest, trembling with barely restrained emotion. He turns to regard her.

“Is something the matter, Concordia?” Her actual name. When Hope says it she finds none of the usual resentment there.

“I’m going to miss all of this.” She tries valiantly to remain calm, but he tilts her chin up and stares into her, imploring the need to reveal what’s so disquieting. “You and I spending time alone together. I really enjoy it, this … closeness we have.”

“What happened?” Hope asks, lightly brushing fingertips along her spine.

Mildly frustrated, Coco props herself up on one elbow and scowls at him. “Yesterday happened. You were there when Pan told me, remember? He’s sending me off to Ishgard so I don’t make more trouble for myself or get in Elysian’s way.”

Hope affects a puzzled expression for several seconds before brightening into amusement. His ensuing voice is slow and heavy with nuance. “Ah. Pahn'a didn’t tell you, did he?” Coco shakes her head, unaware of just what’s going on. “Coerthas is a desolate place of blizzards and other such freezing climes, so I’ve been recently informed.”

“Yes, but what does – ”

“With that knowledge in mind, I visited the markets in Gridania this morning and purchased a furry winter coat along with a pair of boots and several sets of insulated clothing in preparation for our trip to Ishgard. I expected Pahn'a to tell you, but I suppose he’s more dramatic than either of us believed.” Hope stares up at Coco, his fingers coasting up onto her injured shoulder and alighting there delicately. “So tell me, Concordia. Do you enjoy our new closeness?”

For several seconds, Coco doesn’t understand what’s going on. Her confused brain ticks over slowly, going over each aspect of the conversation in case there’s something she missed, but it suddenly skips straight to the end question. “Yes. Do you?”

“Even more than I anticipated.” Hope’s voice is light and nervous. “Given the ease at which we interact it seems natural.”

The tension between them is thick and smouldering, so much so that Coco wonders if this is all a cruel dream she’ll soon wake up from. It’s not like Hope – a famous man in his own world – could ever reciprocate those amorous feelings for a simple Eorzean woman. Coco can’t imagine him lying awake at night and being driven stir-crazy with emotional turmoil like she had, his heart bursting with irrepressible love. Love! Finally. The ratification of this blossoming affection aimed at Hope.

Anchoring her gaze onto his sea-green irises, Coco feels a hammering background beat of heart palpitations. _You’re in love with him_. Blood thunders hotly through her veins, shot through with shards of cold fear. _But it’s only a matter of time and he’ll abandon you too. Just wait and see_. Hemmed in between bitter disappointment and heightened elation, she hides from them both, burying herself back into Hope’s warm shoulder. A gentle quake of trepidation tremors throughout her body.

“Please don’t be afraid of me, Coco.” Hope’s voice is gentle, nuanced with intelligence and that limitless kindness. She breathes in the scent of him so very close : oakmoss cologne, freshly-laundered clean linen and light perspiration mingled with that unmistakable aroma of body heat.

In a moment of lucent imagining, Coco wonders how intimately close they could grow but is assailed by a countering vision – Hope’s extraordinary intellect eventually finding a way back home to Academia, forever stealing him out of her life. Like he senses the consternation, Hope rests his head against Coco’s and exhales wistfully.

“You know, I almost don’t need to show you it now. I want to though. You’ve been through so much lately and I’d like you to know that anything I can do to help you need only ask for, Concordia. But I need you to promise something.”

She emerges from the comfortable warmth of his shoulder, gazing at him curiously then asking, “And what is that, Hope?”

“Promise me this will stay between us alone,” he beseeches softly. “It’s desperately important it remains a secret in Eorzea.”

Disappointment rakes claws into Coco’s heart at those words. She’s been in this situation before – thrust into obscurity because her beloved won’t accept anything more than a clandestine tryst. Even for a singularly unique man like Hope Coco won’t go through that humiliation again. He sees her expression, which must display all kinds of broken pain and raw agony.

“Oh, no Concordia. You thought I meant … when I really meant … ah.” Hope smiles nervously, withdrawing from their physical contact. “I’m sorry. Can I start again? This time without making a complete fool of myself. Here, look.”

Utterly confused, Coco watches as Hope sits up and reaches into the satchel he’d brought along, drawing out a pane of glass. He assumes a cross-legged position and rests it upon his lap almost ceremoniously. This is what needs to be kept a secret? It’s a masterful piece of glasswork, reflecting the night sky like a jet black mirror and expertly bevelled at each edge, but seriously? She frowns lightly at him, trying to discern the intent.

Hope touches his right hand to Coco’s spine, gracing her with a warm smile. Everything changes in that instant he presses a thumb to the pane’s upper right corner. It lights up brightly in the darkness. Words and shapes and colours appear on its surface as a glow bathes them both in soft radiance.

When Coco learns exactly what it is – an exhaustive almanac of Pulsian knowledge accrued over thousands of years and condensed into one miraculous device – there’s nothing she can do to hold back the flood of joyful emotion.


	16. « Skies over Dragonhead – Coerthas Central Highlands, Eorzea │ day thirty one »

As an introduction to Eorzean air travel Hope suspects this isn't the finest example on offer. He's currently occupying a space between oversize crates in the cargo hold of what seems to be a winged icebox huddled up next to Coco. A chilling draught cavorts around the interior which is composed entirely of what look like rime-bitten wooden planks lining a steel skeleton. Various pieces of freight are already studded with ice crystals set to crackling as frosty air passes through them. Despite the cost these new fur-lined boots and the quilted winter coat are doing little to preserve what meagre body heat remains to Hope, who is currently burying both gloved hands beneath his arms in an attempt to stop them freezing solid.

Breathing out a cloud of warm mist and replacing it with gelid frigidity, he glances across at the woman sitting to his right. In comparison she doesn’t seem too bothered by the subzero temperature, but that’s perhaps because she’s enthralled by the Crystarium clutched in her mittened hands like a priceless relic. Coco looks so adorable in that furred hood that Hope can’t help smiling despite his discomfort. Somewhere buried beneath it is a ferocious gladiatrix.

Revealing the Crystarium had been a contentious issue at first. A renowned scientist of multiple fields, Hope is aware of the risk too much knowledge can bring; especially to a world still in the earliest throes of technology. Deliberating, he’d had to balance that innate caution against the act of healing Coco’s sadness and anticipating what the Crystarium would give her. Limitless joy of discovery had been one such thing along with a balm to ease her emotional heartache.

Secretly, Hope had anticipated it would bind them even closer together too. He’d felt endlessly guilty about that admission until Coco held him beneath the starry Lavender Beds sky, her warm and pliable body pressed against him. Of course, he’d played it cool – had to really given her sensitive state – and yet even now feels the effect of their embrace slowly changing him from within. It had given rise to an intriguing surge of thoughts about physical closeness and Hope wonders whether or not he should foster those emotions from the Echo. Coco had ensnared his curiosity and that often proved addictive.

With that notion in mind he reaches out to touch her arm, suddenly needing social interaction once more. She turns and smiles across at him, her face bathed in the artificial glow of the Crystarium’s screen and simply says, “Hey.”

“Hey. What are you reading about?” Hope asks, trying not to shiver too fiercely as he does so. He can see precisely what’s on the screen but wants to hear the prim and perfect diction of Coco’s voice. A distraction from the freezing clime is welcome.

“Oh, well nothing much. Some dessert recipes I might be able to make back at home. This was in the satchel the whole time right?” she asks. Hope smiles. Out of everything she could possibly research and it’s something so innocent as food.

“Indeed,” he replies, feeling a shudder rattle down his spine. “You rescued the Crystarium as well as myself from the forest.”

“It makes me wish I could see Academia myself some day, however unlikely that sounds. Thank you for trusting me with it.” Coco examines Hope’s scrunched-up posture and the gentle chatter of his teeth then inquires, “You’re cold?” He nods briskly. “Would you like me to try and fix that?”

“Please. At this point I’m starting to forget what it’s like being warm.”

Before Hope can imagine what the solution is Coco unravels a thick woollen scarf from around her neck and loops it around his, tucking the tail ends into his winter coat. As Hope opens his mouth to speak she snuggles into him from the side and delicately lays her head against his shoulder. It’s all done in a rapid succession like she’s afraid he’ll reject the advances. Far from it. He looses a deep and unconscious sigh as Coco’s warmth soaks in, curling an arm around her waist and pulling them even closer together.

“Thank you, Concordia,” he murmurs against the fabric of her hood, wondering at this sea change in stance. However nice this feels there’s always a question of why he’s allowing it to happen. _See, even you know this is dangerous_ , something inside warns tersely. _You’ll want more and more until you’re at that point of no return. Are you prepared to go that far and undo everything you’ve achieved?_

Hope takes a deep breath of chilled air and ponders. He’d obeyed that predominant voice all of his adult life and led a chaste existence. It hadn’t once led him down the wrong path, but had there even been a choice? Everyday life on Pulse had demanded a professional man of science and being the Academy’s unwilling figurehead, constantly judged according to society. Here in the cargo hold of an Eorzean airship he’s merely a man embracing a woman whose company he very much he enjoys. Perhaps that’s as complicated as it needs to be and voluntary abstinence isn’t necessary on Hydaelyn. 

“Almost done,” Coco says and props the Crystarium up on his drawn-up thighs. Hope laughs softly. She’d somehow found a looping animation of roaring flames dancing with delicious heat. Her cleverness only serves to galvanise a sense of pride within Hope; that rapacious learning speed one of Coco’s more surprising aspects. The unadulterated bliss sighed against his shoulder is almost too revealing, but he feels much warmer now. Being stuck in a flying refrigerator isn’t so bad after all.

Emerging out of the cosy shipping office around an hour later, a softer variety of winter greets them. Out here the air is breathtakingly crisp and sharp, peppered with snow drifting down in powdery curtains. With their luggage stored under Coco’s name and adventuring ID, they head off into Ishgard itself. Hope is astounded to learn it’s a city-state built atop a mountain peak and connected to the outlying Coerthas hinterlands by an extensive stone bridge.

The mathematical part of his brain wonders at the incredible feat of engineering. How many countless tonnes of rock make up this astounding place? What methods had the builders employed to temper buildings against harsh plummeting temperatures and constant blizzards? There are so many questions blossoming into life that he almost feels overwhelmed.

Hope’s attention is soon lost in exquisite towers and turrets made of an alloyed metal, soaring spires, quaint thatched houses and carved stone architecture everywhere. It’s like something torn out of Cocoon’s past. Lake Bresha’s abandoned stonework springs to mind; a wondrous sight before it had been shattered into oblivion.

He turns to Coco and finds her watching his reaction with a gentle smile upon her cold-caressed face. She’s wearing a long winter coat with matching boots, thick mittens and that hood, all in a chocolate brown material. The fur trim on each garment is an odd opalescent white that shimmers with blue and pink hues when it catches light. Locks of auburn hair curl around Coco’s jaw, framing it neatly. There’s no denying she’s warm and cosy underneath all of that clothing.

“First impressions?” she asks, coming to stand at his side. “We’ll be staying here a while, so I hope they’re good.”

“This place is amazing,” Hope breathes. They’re standing so close he could reach out and cradle her waist, but he shakes that errant notion free. “There must be so much history here, Coco. Thousands of years worth hidden down every side street and lurking in plain sight, so many stories and anecdotes all waiting to be discovered. I’m looking forward to doing just that.”

“It used to be a theocracy,” she tells him, “But that all changed very recently. Right now Ishgard is undergoing a slow process of change but it’s been hard for the people here. Since the city’s founding days the nobility has been in charge though and everyone else has to survive despite that.” A quiet sigh and then, “Shall we get out of the cold? I know a great place.”

Hope follows Coco through a procession of winding streets and back alleys until they arrive at a narrow building lodged into the middle of a terrace. Even the window frames and painted wooden door are unnaturally proportioned as if the whole structure had been roughly compacted into its current location. A small sign hangs above the door – ‘Snowpaw’s Den’. Coco pushes the door open and disappears within, a waft of welcome heat burnishing Hope’s face from inside.

The interior comprises bare stonework and wooden panelling with a huge roaring hearth situated directly opposite the door. Hope breathes deep of the warm air and glances around for his companion, currently seated at a small table by the window.

“Do you like hot cocoa?” she asks, unfastening the hood and shaking her long hair free.

He glances across the table at Concordia, searching for any playfulness in her expression. That particular combination of words could be misconstrued into something else – an admission of one’s secret feelings, for example – but Hope sees only innocence there. A confident man, one used to flirting and able to discern this odd emotional wrangle inside, would have seized upon that opportunity with zeal. Her shortened name and the beverage sound the same, after all. Hope, however, merely offers a nod in acquiescence and watches Coco leave, unable to curtail that wry little smile on his face.

Where this impertinence is coming from, he wouldn’t like to guess. Hope idly observes Coco weaving through the room towards a bar-type area at the back and breathes a sigh of relief. _What a difference an hour makes_ , he muses. They’d swapped that frigid cargo hold out for an enchanting hidden café filled with sweet-scented air and the low hubbub of conversation. Almost all of the tables in here are full, topped with a white pillar candle and occupied by customers in warm winter clothing. There could be gingerbread houses down the street and Hope couldn’t be more pleasantly surprised because it’s like a living fairytale; so idyllic and quaint in every aspect.

Coco returns several minutes later carrying a tray laden with two steaming mugs and a plate of hot sandwich rolls. They’d skipped breakfast in Gridania, so food is a very welcome attraction right now.

“Grilled cheese and apple,” she remarks, sitting down again and retrieving something out of a shoulder bag – one of her beloved journals. Removing a pencil from its spine and beginning to sketch random shapes in a page corner, Coco continues on. “So, I’ve been thinking. Given the short notice, I’d planned to rent a room at a tavern in Foundation. It’s what I usually do when I stay over in Ishgard, but there are two of us now with a sizeable amount of luggage. Plus, I have no idea how long we’ll be stuck here and a ratty inn room with cold draughts and all manner of noisy neighbours isn’t an ideal introduction to this city. Therefore – ”

Amused at the loquacious preamble of Coco’s voice, Hope picks up a sandwich and bites into it carefully. Surprisingly, it’s delicious : sharp tangy cheese and sweetened fruit slices in fresh rye bread. His stomach rumbles in appreciation.

“ – I think I can petition one of my old contacts for use of an estate. Nothing luxurious, perhaps one of the summer houses a few levels down from here.” She taps the pencil on the tabletop, looking thoughtful for a moment. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“What does that involve?” Hope asks. “You needn’t go to too much trouble on my behalf, Concordia.” She smiles at him, apparently enjoying the occasional use of her full name.

“Depends. Nobles are a pretentious lot, but they’re always looking for ways to outdo each other. Could be anything really. Knowing how they behaved when I lived here, they’ll probably send me out to slay some poor beast whose head they’ll mount on a wall.” Coco laughs at Hope’s sudden alarmed expression and shrugs, “Well, that may be an exaggeration but we’ll see.”

“You lived here in Ishgard?” he asks.

Picking up a mug, she nods and then blows on the hot liquid, taking a sip. “In my early twenties I travelled around a lot, learning to be a free paladin all across Eorzea, and part of that time I spent living here. Back then, Ishgard was strictly off-limits to Eorzeans as they had a closed-border policy, but you could sneak in with supply caravans if you were lucky. Or rich. Without a title or claim to nobility, you literally have nothing in this city. But I was young and determined. I wanted to learn as much as I could about life in different places, so I sought employment and was eventually taken on by a minor lord.”

Hope watches Coco slice a sandwich into neat segments and bite into one, pausing in the story to eat.

“He’d recently lost his daughter to a hunting accident and then I came along, asking for work. Maybe that was part of why he gave me a chance, I don’t know, but I did all sorts of jobs whilst I was here. Stablehand, working in the kitchens, cleaning suits of armour, making deliveries. Pretty much anything. After a while, I felt restless and went travelling again, eventually ending up where I stayed, in Gridania with Pan.”

“How did you become a paladin?” Hope asks. He’s always wondered at that.

She looks down at the plate, a sadness overtaking her expression. “My grandfather, Sylvain Delouix, felt I should be able to protect myself. He had lobbied the Sharlayan council and told them war was coming, but they didn’t listen. For my sixteenth nameday, he paid for the tutelage of a free paladin named Ser Dauremont. I spent the next two years learning everything he could teach me until … well, I wanted to see grandfather’s homeland for myself.”

Detecting the negativity in Coco’s voice, Hope diverts conversation away from that topic whilst silently musing on a cause. It’s only the second time she’d spoken about her family since they’d met.

“When I was sixteen I was already halfway through my physics degree,” he says. “It felt like my life at that point was a never-ending succession of exams and skipping grades to progress towards graduation. By seventeen, I’d been promoted to head of an Academy research team. I haven’t looked back since, too consumed by determination to ever allow myself a break.”

“Why not?” Coco asks, glancing up from the journal. She’s scribbling something behind a protective hand. Hope sighs deeply in reminiscence.

“Atonement. I owe an extensive debt because I’d been part of Cocoon’s fall and so I dedicated myself to the Academy. But that’s a very long story indeed, most of which is on the Crystarium anyway. You’re far more interesting, Lady Delouix.”

She laughs self-consciously. “Hardly. I wave a sword around and occasionally kill things. Not much of a career.”

Turning the notebook around for a better look, Hope sees she’d been sketching him sitting at the table. His expression looks unfamiliar; oddly carefree and maybe a little intellectual. He wonders if this could be how he appears as an Eorzean man and not an Academian citizen; not a famous personality recognised on the streets of his prosperous nation, but merely an adventurer’s companion – following her in a vain attempt to safeguard her delicate constitution. Out of what, even he dare not say. The drawing is a reflection of his true self, usually hidden from view. Is this how everyone here sees him?

“You could be anything you want, Concordia. Of that I have no single doubt,” Hope tells her honestly.

“Perhaps.” Coco clears her throat and then utters in a nervous voice, “So, there were never any relation– ”

“Not since I was fifteen.” He’d known immediately that she’d been about to reference romantic liaisons with a woman. “And even that isn’t really worth mentioning. It’s only notable for the fact that it happened at all.”

Hope watches her swallow hard and exhale nervously whilst paying undue attention to a tiny crumb of bread on her plate. Coco is undoubtedly much more experienced than him in such endeavours. She’s a physically capable woman, tempered by acute intelligence and an insatiable curiosity, but calmed by her honourable nature. Then it happens again; that odd mental drift to physicality. He wonders how such a partner would dominate; whether Concordia would even allow him to take control and orchestrate matters. What would she feel like, summarily subdued and yielded absolutely to him?

Returning to reality with a jolt, Hope realises Coco is staring into his glazed-over eyes and remembers to breathe again. She has both arms folded defensively across her chest, dropping one of them momentarily to prod at her mug of cocoa.

“Is this acceptable then, our closeness? Please tell me if it isn’t, Hope. I didn’t really give you much choice and – ”

To iterate his response Hope reaches across and strokes a feather-light touch along Coco’s hand, up underneath the furred cuff of her winter coat and against the bare forearm underneath. She shivers and her mouth parts slightly, sending his pulse into a brisk palpitation. The room’s surrounding atmosphere fades into a dull blur as they stare unflinchingly at one another.

Out of the miasma he hears Coco whisper, “Do you want this?” He nods slowly, entranced. “But why me, Hope?” she posits.

 _Because I’m attracted to you_ , Hope tells her silently, mortally afraid to do it properly. He feels the truth of that statement as a scorching hot wave of tension. _For some reason, touching you shatters every emotional ward I’ve ever built, Coco_. And then, of course, devil’s advocate raises its ugly head. _Or this lapse is because you’re weak and merely a common man now, forcibly removed from your noble causes. You seek to fill that void with base physicality because you have no other purpose. Isn’t that right, former Director Estheim? Admit it. A woman from another world has effortlessly torn you from grace_.

“What are we doing right now?” Coco’s voice brims deep with nervous energy, hearkening Hope back to her.

“Apart from stridently avoiding actual terms and operating on assumed pretence?” He hears his own timbre darkened immeasurably and feels that inner self twisted into a turmoil of rapid heartbeats and pumping blood. “Gravitating, I believe. And you’re not forcing me into this at all. I’m enjoying how it feels and I don’t want it to stop, Concordia.”

“Neither do I Hope.” Coco’s fingers slide up onto his left wrist and caress with lingering softness. She could hardly know but that’s where his l'Cie brand had been – the epicentre of Hope’s cursed magical energies. He’d been ashamed of it for so long and covered it up with a wrapping of yellow cloth, which had been lost that day in the Eorzean forest when Coco had saved his life. Set into that rounded face of blush pink, her eyes are dark emeralds gleaming with everything he’d seen in the Echo.

“Perhaps you need time to decide if this how you really feel though,” she cautions, curling her fingers around him.

“Time and myself aren’t the best of friends,” Hope says with a rueful smile. He wonders then if Coco’s words were really a subtext for her own mental state. Is she just like him, chaotic inside and barely able to control this tidal surge of emotions? From what he’s seen every indication points towards that.

For Hope himself, each additional day spent in Eorzea ebbs away at his habitual resolve like an ocean gradually erodes the shoreline. With an Academian woman this wouldn’t ever have happened. But the ambrosial paladin seated across from him at the table? Somehow it had. Her goodness and kind heart lure him like a siren’s song, serenading that closeted part deep inside. He feels compelled to ease all of Coco’s troubles and just being around her soothes him greatly. She had rescued Hope and he doesn’t need any of his three doctorates to calculate where he’ll be when that final barrier is broken down.

“You seem happier now,” he says quietly. That statement is an absolute truth. “Even if you are stuck here with me.”

“Yeah. Somehow I’ll manage, huh.” They regard each other and smile, turning some of that heated tension into humour.

“So,” Hope begins, picking up the mug of cocoa with his free right hand and taking a swallow, “Who is your contact here?”

Concordia sits up straight and proclaims merrily, “Lord Anselfort de Bissette-Rois! Let’s hope that my lieutenancy with the Adders will be enough leverage to secure accommodation. Failing that, I can go behead a monstrous beast or two.”

Hope laughs softly. “And I shall hope it doesn’t come to that. You are technically injured, although you don’t act that way.”

He’d been afraid in that split-second afterwards that she’d take the comment in a way he hadn’t intended, but that look in Coco’s eyes makes Hope wonder who is really more in control of their emotions.


	17. « Cantillon House Estate – The Holy See of Ishgard, Eorzea │ day thirty two »

Standing before the impressive row of terraced housing as snow falls heavily the two individuals examine their destination in silence. Verifying its address in her notebook, Coco takes a further step back and shields her eyes from the swirling whiteness, taking in the building as a whole. Incorporating Ishgard’s penchant for simply masonry work embellished with subtle details, their borrowed house is constructed out of grey stone blocks of varying sizes. Hard angles and curving arches exist in architectural harmony whilst the window frames are made of a heavy fortified wood.

The elaborate front door itself is painted in de Bissette-Rois colours of pear green and honey with black accents. There are stone steps leading up to it, bordered on both sides by a hedgerow of tough alpine shrubs topped with snow. Ornate black-iron lamps sit either side of the door and remain inert in this early morning light.

All things considered, Coco is very pleased so far. Lord Anselfort’s terms hadn’t been too demanding and the estate is infinitely better than those inn rooms at the Forgotten Knight. She’d been asked to accompany a hunting party four days from now and, along with Hope, formally invited to dinner tonight. Knowing what that would mean given her status as both an adventurer and Second Serpent Lieutenant of the Twin Adders, Coco had initially hesitated.

She anticipates standing rigid in a corner for several bells, having an array of noble guests stare like she’s some treasured possession and openly discussing her reputation akin to a fine wine. Having such a surprise personality attend one’s soiree will score points with other nobles, of course, as anything related to Eorzea’s grand companies is very popular in Ishgard. The rich and blue-blooded are keen to stay on the cusp of all things fashionable.

Coco can only hope they’ll leave her silver-haired companion out of the exhaustive commentary. She hadn’t explained the complexities of inter-racial relationships and their Eorzean taboo with Hope yet, nor wanted to. An awkward choice of conversation at any junction, there’s the chance it won’t even need to be conferred. _You’re not even in a relationship_ , she scolds herself. _Just some halfway point full of tension and tactile moments. However much you want him._

Shivering within and without, Coco hefts the luggage cart to the front steps and leaves it behind, fishing around for house keys in her shoulder bag. Stiffened by Ishgard’s brittle climate, the lock takes some careful coaxing but eventually yields and clicks open, its connective door opening into a hallway out of the cold. A minute later and both travellers are standing over the threshold surrounded by their belongings, breathing warmer and noticeably staler air.

“I suspect we’ll have a lot of housework to do,” Coco guesses out loud. “Everything will be in storage and I’ll assume we’ll need to buy food and dry firewood, then cycle fresh water into the cistern.”

Hope walks forward, pulling the glove off one hand and stroking his finger along an exquisite wooden cabinet. Dust gathers upon it thickly. He rubs thumb and forefinger together, musing, “No doubt. Does summer come to Ishgard at all?”

Coco smiles as their eyes meet, sending a thread of warmth into her belly. “Well, there are occasions when it doesn’t snow quite as much. I suppose that qualifies. Believe it or not, before the Calamity Coerthas had a temperate climate.”

They walk through a stone archway into the house’s main chamber – a large salon decorated in banded wallpaper the colour of macaroons and chestnut praline. Sunshine pours through unshuttered windows and alights upon brass wall sconces put to shame by a spectacular teardrop chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Tarpaulin shrouds each solid piece of furniture in misshapen creamy folds, protecting whatever’s underneath from dust and damp. Coco meanders around slowly, peeking beneath covers and stopping by the huge open fireplace, which is spotlessly clean and devoid of kindling as suspected.

“There’s so much to sort out,” she calls to Hope, who is currently pulling off his hat and combing fingers through silver locks. Sounds bounce in hollow fashion around the bare room. “If you’d like to unpack I can get on with some housework and make this place a home again.”

His thick winter coat glistens with globules of melted snow as he comes to stand beside her at the hearth. In the darkened room Hope’s eyes encapsulate a deep teal hue that Coco can’t help falling into.

“Unacceptable, for two reasons. You’re still in convalescence with a shoulder injury and I believe in equal culpability. So, divided up properly we can both make this place a home again. I’ll accept nothing less,” Hope states cheerfully. Coco merely stares at him, surprised by that admission. “We haven’t finished exploring yet though. Care to do that first?” he asks.

The subsequent wander around a noble’s estate clutching onto a man she’d only recently accepted being in love with feels strange to Coco. As they make each new discovery she wonders if this is how house-hunting with a partner feels; deciding where you’ll spend the rest of your lives raising children and growing old together. That notion is especially prevalent when they come to the first bedchamber complete with four-poster bed, beautifully carved with flowered vines and songbirds in flight. A pot of dried gardenia scents the air with subtle fragrance.

Releasing Hope’s hand, Coco walks over to a shuttered window and peers through the slats. Yesterday had been a tumultuous jaunt of heated stares and tense moments; from their embrace in the cargo hold to electrifying caresses in the café, right up until the awkward silence outside of Coco’s inn room door. It had been her fault entirely, of course. She should have bid goodnight and withdrawn into her chamber, but ultimately hesitated; leaning against the wall mesmerised by those seafoam eyes.

They’d eventually retreated to their individual inn rooms for the night without event, but Coco had woken up this morning and remembered all of it with embarrassment. The last man she’d ever gotten close to destroyed her faith in relationships and yet kind-natured Hope would never harm her, would he? Even if that’s true he’ll eventually return to Academia and forget Eorzea ever existed, surrounded by the miracle of his own world. It’s heartbreak either way and only one in a cluster of stressful situations weighing heavily on Coco’s mind.

Beyond the frosted glass a view of Ishgardian buildings coated with snow like gateaux sprinkled in powdered sugar sprawls for malms. Very few people are out in this weather, but Coco watches one Elezen man struggle to lead a chocobo and sled down the street. Her mind saunters along, remembering late-night lessons beneath a starry sky and that cosy snuggle designed to warm Hope through. Could she make him happy if he’d concede to an attempted relationship?

“Concordia?” Hope’s voice is accompanied by his hand squeezing her shoulder. Coco jumps and is startled back into focus.

“Huh?” Forced to guess a reply, she mumbles, “Oh. Yeah, that’s fine. You can have this room and I’ll take the other one.”

Those beautiful oceanic eyes widen as he appraises her mood, picking away at the crumbling outer layer. Coco wills the emotional cacophony down to a single manageable chunk and swallows it down, beset by a hundred different conflicts. Suddenly it’s all too much. She offers a lame excuse, but Hope’s reaction makes it plain he sees straight through the deceit. Smiling bravely he explains that he’s going to start dusting downstairs and leaves Coco alone with her turmoil in the bedchamber. Feeling like a pathetic coward she sits down on the bare mattress and sighs, a dull ache gnawing at her insides.

Somehow managing to avoid confrontation until much later on in the day, Coco feels even worse. It’s approximately forty minutes before they’re due to attend Lord Anselfort’s soiree and she finds Hope seated in the kitchen, staring at a blank Crystarium screen. The fingers of one hand propping up his head, he’s wearing the slate grey formal attire they’d bought yesterday. _It really suits him_ , she notes, barely making that observation before he gazes upward. His eyes scrutinise Coco dressed in ceremonial armour with Almace and Ancile oiled to a sheen like a good little adventurer ought. At least it’s easy to forget that she’s a coward whilst decorated in a knight’s finery.

“You look very chivalrous, my lady paladin,” Hope intones in a formal tone. Rising from the table, he offers a polite bow and a smile aimed in her direction. Silence lingers uncomfortably in the air between them. “Coco. Talk to me, please,” he pleads softly. Pain is so evident in Hope’s eyes that she looks away in shame.

“I’m afraid to.” Her own voice is barely a whisper, ushered forth as she’s stepping around him to place Ancile onto the kitchen table. Coco retreats to stand by the darkened fire pit, leaning back against the stone wall with one hand on the mantelpiece. She glances up at Hope, who is standing somewhat awkwardly opposite. “I don’t want to say too much.”

“You were so happy yesterday,” he says, approaching slowly like he expects some kind of reaction. “What happened since?”

“I decided to stop and think, I suppose.” Coco stares down at the masonry floor beneath their feet. The very real lack of sound is making her anxious and she takes a deep breath, deciding how much of this turmoil to share with him. “Being here feels like I abandoned Lhei to whatever is stalking her. What if I something happens and I could have prevented it?”

She sighs loosely, feeling the onset of emotion she’d been trying to stifle. Words spill out unfiltered.

“Seeing that dead man in Ul'dah and being told something is watching me, then feeling it in the garden at Lhei’s party made everything real, Hope. I wasted our lead in Quarrymill because I reacted on instinct rather than cool rational thought, and look where that ended up.” Coco pauses to breathe in anxiously. “Stupid enough to get myself injured and Pan is furious, the Maelstrom are hunting me down, I’m angry and hurt at what happened in Bronze Lake and … and then there’s you. Us.”

Hope slides both of his hands into hers, which are hidden beneath the leather and hammered metal of a paladin’s gauntlets. Coco’s heart races as he squeezes tight and strokes both thumbs along her counterparts, gazing across into her eyes.

“Pahn'a cares for you more than he’ll admit. His anger was a front to ensure that you’d leave, to put some distance between you both and clear the air. I can’t imagine how you’re coping with everything else, Coco. But please, don’t deal with it alone.” He stops to smile briefly. “I can only hope that my insistence in spending time together shows just how much I enjoy your company, but there’s no pressure between us. This can stop now or continue on as we allow it.”

Coco’s chest aches at Hope’s admission. “I feel selfish. You’re stranded on a backwards world and here’s me grousing.”

“That’s a very subjective outlook and it could be much, much worse. There could be no coffee for example,” Hope says with a smile and Coco follows suit despite the melancholy. “To be honest Concordia, I want to give you comfort but I’m nervously apprehensive,” he breathes in a light tone. “I mean, you are encased in solid metal right now. Can you feel through it?”

She manages a slow nod and quails inside, wondering at what Hope could possibly be planning. He surrenders into Coco’s eyes and moves against her, palming both hands onto her armoured hips and coiling around in a tight embrace. As if her lungs have been crushed under a tonze of compacted snow, Coco gasps breathlessly in shock. Her pulse soars within.

“Nothing I can say will change the past, but I’m here should you need support and I will never abandon you,” Hope states in a surprisingly even tone despite their proximity. “You’re a good-hearted person and the road you’ve chosen is a difficult one, but I believe in your ability to survive it. You’re a paladin after all. I hear they’re a resilient breed. How are you feeling now?”

“Somewhat better,” Coco whispers against him, feeling all kinds of guilt twisted around elation. “Thank you Hope.”

“You’re welcome. Now I believe we are required elsewhere for a time. Are you ready to endure all of that, Lady Delouix?”

An eternity later and Coco is spending the evening exactly how she’d anticipated, standing in one corner of a stifling hot salon being gawked at by ostentatious nobles. Some approach and engage in conversation whilst others merely stare like they would at a statue, but Coco’s mind is lost elsewhere. Despite the heart-warming interaction with Hope earlier, negativity is slowly creeping back in his absence. What about Lhei at home in the Lavender Beds or the Maelstrom’s unjustified warpath; all of that cold-blooded murder enacted by bandits and a nameless assassin working down a list?

Then there’s Hope himself. Coco wonders what would happen should she confess her love for him. Would they end up in that bedchamber, entwined in each other until dawn or would he distance himself, confronted by such a powerful admission of affection? She shouldn’t even be contemplating such things, given everything else. How can she be so utterly selfish as to think of romance when her friend’s life is in mortal danger? Remorse – that ever-present cloud of doom – lingers.

Feeling a rivulet of sweat cascade down her spine Coco eyes the room, looking for the silver-haired man who’d stolen her heart. There are so many decadent people present in Lord Anselfort’s solar, talking and making merry, engaging in the great social game that is Ishgardian aristocracy. How many accords would be founded in here tonight? There’ll be mistresses hidden from wives in plain sight, underhand business deals and political power plays; the spiteful gossip and backhanded insults wrapped up in clever turns of phrase. This is a veritable vipers’ next and Hope is lost among it somewhere.

Throat scratchily dry now, Coco begrudgingly watches a manservant wander by with a tray of wine glasses. _Drinking on an empty stomach is always a terrible idea_ , she tells herself and cracks a rueful smile. No, she’s destined to stand here and suffer no matter what. Maybe someone will hear her stomach rumbling and bring food over in sympathy.

“Did you hear, darling?” An Elezen woman in flowing amethyst fabric flounces past on a taller man’s arm. Her face is fixated on his aloof expression and she’s completely reliant on him to steer the way safely through the salon. “Baron Labramoff was found dead this afternoon! Frightfully terrible. Just after Lady Grimble passed too. They’re saying it was a jilted lover but – ”

Coco’s heart freezes in her chest. Surely it’s just an unfortunate coincidence. Ishgard must have its fair share of foul play and intrigue too, after all. But then the fear starts to run wild. If the murderer is here in this city does that mean their agenda has changed from the list? What if it’s here right now, dressed as a cut-throat in noble clothing? She has to know if Lhei is safe.

“Excuse me.” She lurches after the woman in amethyst, her muscles stiff like tree trunks after being rooted in that gods-damned corner for so long. Dread clutches at Coco’s chest as the pair disappears into a crowd. Scanning, she sees them over by the door and resists the urge to run. Thankfully they’ve stopped to have their wine glasses filled by a manservant and are content at chatting for now. Coco catches up, hot and breathless in full ceremonial armour. “Excuse me, madame?”

The noble woman’s unnatural cadence is like the strike of a serpent, whirling around to face its prey. “How very dare – Ah, you’re Lord Anselfort’s pet adventurer, the one from the forest. Well met! Lord Janouselle and I were jus– ”

Coco holds up a forestalling hand, her heart thundering with nervous anticipation. “I’m sorry but you mentioned a murder?”

“Goodness. Well, that is what adventurers do, isn’t it I suppose. Investigate … crime.” The last word is uttered with such pure disdain that it feels salacious and dirty. She prattles on for so long about unkempt foreigners and their ignoble behaviour that Coco feels like shaking the stupid woman by the shoulders. Eventually, the conversation moves on to its desired resolution. “Dead! In the middle of the street! A dagger through his heart!” the woman splays a hand dramatically across her own chest. “Verily, I don’t believe that man had a heart at all. Just a black withered thing instead of a – ”

“Where was he found?” Coco almost demands, desperate for details, “Has anyone reported it to the Knight Captain yet?”

By now the noble is apparently quite tired of being interrupted and snaps coldly, “By Halone’s grace, no-one cares! It was just a worthless Hyur of questionable lineage. Now, if you will excuse me, I am quite busy! Go slay a beast or something.”

Frustrated at having learned almost nothing, Coco turns away from the ignorant woman and heads off into the crowd. After what seems like another eternity she surfaces by Hope and Lord Anselfort himself, deep in conversation and surrounded by a group of attentive listeners. A refreshingly cool draught floats in from the bay windows and snakes along the back of Coco’s scorched neck. She exhales a silent breath of relief and touches a hand to Hope’s back, alerting him to her presence.

“Good evening Lady Delouix,” he says sounding uncharacteristically formal. “How are you faring at tonight’s gathering?”

Coco frowns curiously at Hope and he raises one eyebrow ever so slightly, mutely suggesting that she stick to the cover story they’d agreed earlier. He’s supposed to be a visiting scholar from the Sharlayan homeland come to research Eorzean history and she’s his hired adventurer guard. The ploy had been forgotten in amongst the recent news of another killing.

“Oh. Very well, thank you.” She turns to her patron, the same man who’d given her employment all of those years ago, and bows cordially to his crowd of onlookers. “Excuse me, my lord. Could I steal Master Estheim away from you a short while?”

Lord Anselfort beams. “Of course, of course. Your gentleman companion is rather excellent at dodging answers to carefully put questions, besides. I fear I’m outmatched. But you, my dear, have gone above and beyond what I asked of you tonight, so please consider yourself at leave. Should you wish to head home, let one of the staff know and they’ll arrange transport.” He bids them both goodnight and turns to the throng of lesser aristocrats awaiting their turn.

Glancing over her shoulder to make sure Hope is following, Coco pushes through the balcony doors and inhales a deep breath of brittle cold air. It’s a bracing experience after that stuffy salon filled with aristocratic disdain.

“Did something happen, Coco?” Hope asks, pushing the large bay windows closed and completing their isolation.

She describes everything about the hearsay and gossip, articulating her fear that the murderer is here in Ishgard. Hope listens intently throughout as Coco casts surreptitious glances around the courtyard spread out below. Midnight blue patina soaks every surface and a pristine sheet of snow glistens in the soft moonlight. Out here, darkness reigns over all. There are so many shadows and hiding places, perfect for an ambush should someone wish them harm.

A chilling gust of wind races through the gaps in Coco’s ceremonial armour, freezing beads of earlier perspiration into pinpoints of intense cold. She shivers with unnatural force. Hope reaches out and wraps his fingers around Coco’s right gauntlet then guides her away from the window where inquisitive nobles would be able to see them. Backed up against the manor’s outer wall, she wonders if he’s ashamed of their closeness or if prudence is leading that charge instead.

“I understand how you feel, but spending an evening surrounded by supposed aristocrats in that room has taught me how dangerous Ishgard can be. Their words and subtle undertones may as well be swords for all the verbal attacks those people throw out, but I think fear is preying on your mind here. You’re much stronger than this, Concordia.”

“You don’t believe me?” Coco whispers emptily. She’d been counting on his support.

“I do, but please don’t go off alone and put yourself in danger trying to prove a point. We can work on it together.” Hope moves closer to emphasise his statement, pressing up against the silvered adamantite cuirass. “Don’t let doubt overrule your rational mind. It seeks to drag you down into despair and won’t ever let go. Don’t afford it that opportunity. Stay busy, keep your mind occupied, focus on long term goals but don’t wait around for something bad to happen. You’ll eventually see there is nothing to be afraid of in life.”

Cautiously Coco glances out over the courtyard again. Not a single thing has changed, but the fear has lifted slightly. Could Hope’s assertion be true? Is emotional turmoil taking advantage of her confused state and making shadows into monsters?

“What do you mean by long term goals?” she asks him.

“Has there ever been something you’ve wanted hovering just out of reach, like a wild dream or ambitious project that would take years to achieve?” Coco shakes her head and Hope smiles at her. “I don’t believe that for a second. An intelligent, well-travelled woman like yourself and there isn’t a single thing you aspire to? Even I have dreams, Concordia.”

“After the Calamity fell I tried to reconnect with grandfather and my parents. Two whole years of failure taught me it’s impossible without reliable contacts already in Sharlayan. My kinsmen are notoriously averse to Eorzeans.” Coco exhales a cloud of misted breath and strokes the back of one gauntlet down Hope’s chest. Their close proximity – and the soft scrape of polished metal against karakul wool – is deeply soothing. His eyes gleam like frozen seawater.

“So, I don’t know a great deal about Eorzean economics but I had this idea. Have you ever considered leasing a market stall or opening your own bakery to sell those wonderful desserts that you make? And here’s the best part.” Hope leans in closer to whisper softly, “You can use the Crystarium to cheat with recipes from another world. It’ll be our little secret, alright?”

Coco gazes at him and feels a torrent of gratitude sweeping through. Even though his cheeks are turning pink from exposure to the cold he’s out here doing his utmost to support her.

“Thank you again, Hope.” She embraces him carefully and rests her chin on his shoulder. “I’m beginning to see just how you earned your oddly poetic name.”

He laughs against her ear. “You have no idea, but you’re welcome once again. How about we go inside and then head back to Cantillon House? It’s been a long day and I think you’ve earned some rest.”

Coco glances out over the midnight blue courtyard one last time. There are indentations in the snow now, alternately spaced left to right like hollowed-out footprints. A thud of falling snowdrift and that dark billowing shadow is all it takes; the earlier anxiety comes crashing back down like a sheet of glass, shattering the quiet composure she had only just dared reclaim.


	18. « Foundation – The Holy See of Ishgard, Eorzea │ day thirty five »

Finding herself at an impasse, Coco rests both forearms on the cold stone wall and gazes upon yet another Ishgardian dawn. A swirling ice mist covers everything and captures the emerging sun, diffusing its light into a curtain of soft coralline hues across the sky. At Foundation’s altitude the air is glacial and crisp, like breathing in a cloud of minuscule ice crystals whilst feeling them melt on your tongue. Shovelled piles of fresh snow lay heaped against pathways as the bare stone of streets and walkways glisten with salted ice water.

Shivering at the brittle finger of cold raking down her neck, Coco stands and rubs both arms vigorously. Now that the warmth generated by her pre-dawn run has expired she’s feeling the bite of Ishgard’s inhospitable climate once again. Her mind drifts unconsciously to silver-haired Hope; presumably wrapped up warm in his bed and still fast asleep. It’s because of him that Coco is at a junction of thought, loitering outside the Skysteel Manufactory deciding what to do.

She’d stayed up all night immersed in the Crystarium, reading Hope’s entire life story with abject fascination. That a single man could go above and beyond every technological feat the Allag had ever been capable of in their tyrannical rule is a miracle; even more so because Hope had done it out of an altruistic drive to save people, not subjugate them. But it required every shred of his being – countless studies and sleepless nights, no social life or loving partner to share his troubles with – and not a single day off in over thirteen years. One man’s life sacrificed for the betterment of millions; to provide a safe haven in Academia where they can prosper and grow.

Coco’s heart aches to think of him that way. She loves Hope unconditionally but she can’t deny him the chance to go home. Given all that he’s achieved, he would find it eventually. It’s just that, this way with her help, he may happen upon it much sooner and forego some of the pain. Compared to the marvels of Gran Pulse, who wouldn’t want to leave Eorzea and return home as soon as possible? Her fingers brush against the soft leather bag, over the envelope concealed within, and she sighs forlornly. _Make your decision and stick to it. You owe him this much_.

Pushing herself against the heavy steel-reinforced doors, Coco emerges into the workshop and almost winces at the cacophony within. Hammering metal, pounding pistons, the hiss of hot steam and clanking gears all converging into one mass of sound. She heads over to a Wildwood man dressed in an engineer’s smock who’s busy welding a tube of some description.

“Yes love. How can I help you?” he yells, overly cheerful for this early bell and slides the pair of thick goggles onto his forehead. Coco says something but her voice is almost lost. The man takes her by the arm and leads her into an office behind a set of swinging metal doors. It looks like a design room lined with blueprints and drawings of various machines.

“That’s much better. Thank you,” she says gratefully, taking in a breath laced with hints of oil and hot metal. Nerves thrum within, making idle conversation spill out. “How do you cope with that noise all day long?”

“You either cope or go deaf,” the man laughs. “Noise is why we ain’t got any Duskwights working in the forge. Name’s Romillioux Verne. So what can I do for you, beautiful? Not often I see a lady in the workshop, let alone so soon after dawn.”

“Is Master Garlond in?” She pauses to look around. “I have a very important missive that needs an equally urgent reply.”

Romillioux shakes his head. “Only just got back from Idyllshire so he’s abed still. Likely be here in a few bells though since we’re due to start on a new project today. Want me to pass it along for you?”

Coco rests a hand against the bag, deliberating. _Last chance. This is the point of no return unless Cid doesn’t reply to the letter. He will though, just because it’d be easier if he didn’t and I’d get to keep Hope_. “Would you? I’d be most grateful.” As she’d written the letter in cipher there’s little chance of its contents being leaked to a snooping third-party. That fact may even help to get a quicker reply given the suspiciously cautious measure. Thanking Romillioux once more, she heads back through the workshop and onto the long journey back to Cantillon House.

Chilled right through upon unlocking the front door, Coco meanders into the kitchen to find Hope seated at the table. A mug of steaming black coffee is in his right hand, the page of an open book resting on his left.

“Good morning,” he says looking bright and awake. “I figured you’d gone out somewhere when I found the Crystarium in here all alone.” Hope’s silver hair is damp, clinging to his face in leaden curves and betraying the evidence of a hot bath. Coco smiles and pours herself a measure of dark restorative, feeling warmth flow through with one sip.

“Mmm. I went for an early morning run to clear my head.” She sits down at the table, deliberately pulling the chair close to him. He notices and favours her with a gentle smile before she asks, “What are you reading?”

“Oh. One of the books I bought yesterday on our shopping venture. ‘Of Sharlayan and the Studium’. Did you study there?”

Coco gazes at Hope curiously, wondering if he’s studying up on her as she had done him. That would be an interesting twist.

“No. There were actually two places named Sharlayan. The original is a nation far north of Eorzea on an island complex in the Bloodbrine Sea,” she explains. “That’s where the founding scholars and governing council are situated in addition to a variety of academic schools of study. The Studium itself was on the Isle of Val before … well, something bad happened.”

She takes another mouthful of coffee. Strange that Hope brews it just a little stronger than Coco prefers and yet it’s still amazingly good. Half a spoon of maple sugar crystals stirred in and it’s perfect.

“My birthplace, also named Sharlayan just to confuse everyone, was a city-state north-west of Ishgard in the Dravanian hinterlands. We had schools and a college but nothing like the Studium. Only the brightest, most intelligent students could earn scholarships there. You’d have had no problem getting into that place.”

Hope deposits his mug on the table and strokes fingers along Coco’s arm, gazing at her fondly. “But I come from a different world. The disciplines I spent my life studying don’t exist here, so that’s not necessarily true. I appreciate your faith in me, however. I’ve always believed education is vital in improving ourselves and elevating the next generation even further.”

Looping her arm through his and reciprocating the caress, Coco leans against Hope’s shoulder. Perhaps this contact won’t last much longer and she’ll need to be greedy before he finds a way back home.

“I remember reading that one of your first edicts as Director was to offer free education to all children under the age of sixteen. And that you founded an organisation to support students taking advanced degrees.”

“Ah yes. I did notice your chosen topic of research on the Crystarium earlier,” Hope says with a smile. How could he possibly know that? An explanation swiftly follows. “It catalogues a detailed history of whatever you research on there, so I noticed that you hardly slept at all last night. Rest is very important, Concordia. It’s essential you sleep properly to remain healthy.”

“You’re hardly one to lecture me on that,” Coco states. He yields with a quiet laugh. “But is everything on there true?”

“Mostly. A very concise and detailed account of Director Hope Estheim, except it isn’t. Did it teach you that I’m fascinated with the night sky or tell you how I almost died on a school trip at eight years old? Does it say how I love the colour aquamarine and that my favourite meal is a steak dinner, or how I’ve always dreamed of swimming in the ocean?” Hope’s fingers curl around Coco’s gently as he pauses for breath. “And I’m absolutely positive the Crystarium doesn’t know how especially close a certain red-haired paladin and I have grown in recent days. The countless millions of inhabitants making up both our worlds and only you know those trivial details about me, Coco.”

Her chest aching at Hope’s words, she stares down at the dark-stained maple table. Maybe she shouldn’t have written that letter after all. What if he really does belong here in Eorzea and she’s sending him away?

Hope closes his book and sighs readily, “I’ve never been this close to anyone before. It’s gratifying to simply be myself.”

“I can give you that comfort at the very least.” Coco faces him and smiles. “So, tell me. What’s your favourite dessert?”

“Raw hazelnut cheesecake with a chocolate base.” He reaches across for the Crystarium and types haphazardly with his left hand, eventually bringing up an image of a decadently rich dessert shrouded with chopped nuts. It looks amazing.

“I could also give you that, if you tell me how to make it.” They stare then, neither able to look away as their gazes connect. Feeling the nervous energy, Coco eventually forces herself to speak. “Hope, there’s someone in Ishgard I think you’d like to meet and I wrote a letter to him on your behalf.”

“Oh?” he asks and Coco elaborates upon her reason for contacting Cid, intentionally avoiding the exposition about helping Hope find a way home to Academia. She doesn’t want to deal with that nor make him suspect he isn’t welcome in Eorzea any more. Nothing could be further from the truth. Hope’s eyes widen with every additional fact he learns and his expression soon changes to one of eager anticipation. “I look forward to meeting Master Garlond soon. Thank you Coco.”

Lured by Hope’s miraculous device within her reach once more, she starts to play with it and falls back into that obsession of learning. A whole lifetime alone with the Crystarium and Coco would never be able to glean every shred of information from it. That fact alone entrances her but she wonders how powerful it truly could be; how it could cure disease or develop new technologies to propel Eorzea into the future. And yet that knowledge is bound by a promise she doesn’t intend to break.

Seemingly content to watch for a while, Hope remains quiet but eventually releases Coco’s arm. She casts a sidelong glance to catch him drinking lukewarm coffee and hears the tentative sigh layered with emotion. It’s so undeniably familiar. For a while he does nothing at all as Coco’s attention is buried in the history of Academia’s central plaza, but then Hope’s right hand slides around her waist. He leans across and whispers into her ear, “How are you feeling today?”

“Pensive and contemplative,” she admits. Hope laughs and says he could have guessed that based on her expression alone. “I was thinking, would you like to do some sightseeing today? You haven’t explored the Pillars and there are a lot of landmarks to see up there, hundreds of years of historical monuments and old buildings. The big cathedral too.”

“I’d love to do that,” he says and squeezes her waist, “But I also have a question for you. Are there any good places to eat in Ishgard, apart from the little bistro we visited on that first day? We should go back there some day too.”

Coco pouts thoughtfully. “A few. Most noble households have their own cooks so they survive that way. Food outlets are a relatively new thing here, not like in Academia. I can make us something later though so don’t worry about that,” she says.

Hope shifts nervously, taking a deep breath then. “Oh, I’m aware. But I’d like to take you out for dinner somewhere nice.” Abandoning the Crystarium right then, Coco stares at him. She wonders at his intention but accidentally voices what she’d been contemplating. He appears equally embarrassed as he mutters, “Yes Concordia. Exactly like a date, in fact.”

“Okay.” Belatedly, she realises that’s about as much of an understatement one could muster to being asked out by their heart’s desire but Hope doesn’t seem too concerned. His eyes really are mesmeric when he gazes so.

Fortunately the weather stays clement all day long and there’s only a brittle sense of iciness instead of heaped-up snowdrifts. Sitting by a brazier with an expanse of star-studded sky spreading out above them, Coco and Hope are enjoying the night air. They’d managed to visit every significant location in The Pillars; with the former providing commentary and the latter absorbing every piece of information greedily.

As sunset hues painted the bare sky a beautiful array of rose and honey, they’d dined at one of the few eateries in this stone city. With so many people around, it hadn’t quite been a romantic evening but Coco finds herself thoroughly warmed through – and not entirely due to the wine she’d partaken. The misery of recent days is beginning to lift, piece by slow piece.

“How do you even begin constructing an artificial moon?” she’s asking Hope as they both gaze up into the abyssal black of night. One of his gloved hands is nestled in Coco’s lap, cocooned by hers in turn. It’s a cosy and comfortable arrangement.

“Using a lot of very complex science. Technically, Bhunivelze isn’t a moon since it wouldn’t orbit in space, but Dalamud did as I understand it. Objects of that size often play havoc with a planet’s lower atmosphere and it’s a constant balancing act to mitigate those efforts. Tidal surges, axial tilts, artificial full-scale eclipses and so on.” Hope squeezes Coco’s hand and leans against her, his voice lapsing into nuance. “But the hardest part by far is regulating artificial gravity within the sphere itself, calculating that according to terrain height and applying it at a certain density throughout. It’s fairly rudimentary after that.”

Able to stare slack-jawed and do little else Coco utters, “Rudimentary? Hope, many Eorzeans can’t even read or write. You’re above and beyond anything we’ve ever seen on Hydaelyn. Your intelligence is astounding.”

He laughs. “You make it sound like I did everything myself. It’s a project that requires hundreds of years and thousands of people to continue on where the previous generation left off. I was merely an overseer and consultant scientist. And our knowledge is cumulative. We’ve had hundreds of years surrounded by technology and are continually learning from it.”

“You were project director. And you designed it, drew up all of the plans,” she says. He shrugs and Coco recoils, incredulous. “You don’t ever give yourself a break, do you? Surely you can’t be so dismissive of your role in Bhunivelze’s creation.”

“Showing you the Crystarium was a bad idea,” Hope smiles wryly. “Besides, I have you to extol my apparent virtues. Why would I ever need anything else?” He reaches across with his free hand and touches it tenderly to Coco’s jaw. She closes her eyes to soak in that sensation more deeply. “You’re like nothing that exists in my world, Concordia,” he breathes.

“I’m Elezen. The pointed ears give it away so I’m told,” she says almost dreamily. “You’re fortunate you look exactly like a Midland Hyur though, Hope. That fact surely helps you to fit in but will draw awkward stares when we’re out together.”

“And you believe that affects how close we’ve grown?” he sighs. “I had that talk with Pahn'a, incidentally. He made me aware that our diversity wouldn’t be so easily accepted outside of the adventuring community. I told him I don’t care.”

“Seven hells Hope!” Coco exclaims, opening her eyes to regard him, “Do you have any idea what – ” And then she freezes mid-statement upon seeing it beyond Hope’s shoulder : the shadow, staring right at them. _It really is there. I’m not imagining it this time. Is it the same one from the garden and courtyard? What am I supposed to do, confront it head on?_

Standing slowly so as not to scare it away, she keeps both eyes focused on the black silhouette crouched by a wall. It’s an odd fat shape like a lumpy sack of popotoes, but Coco can feel the intensity of its stare even now. How long had it been ogling them like a pervert lurking out of view? Just what did it hope to achieve with these scare tactics? Something snaps within Coco and every shred of fear bursts into flaming rage, indignant at its mere presence.

“I can see you now!” she yells with a tightened jaw, adrenaline beginning to surge like a cool river throughout her body. “Stop hiding in the darkness like a degenerate and come out, confront me if that’s your intention. I’m not afraid of you!”

“Coco, what – ” Hope begins, but she puts a hand onto his shoulder and squeezes, turns him around. A sharp intake of breath must mean he sees it too; she’s really not hallucinating. Cloudy breath billows in the faint moonlight as Coco concentrates on breathing in then out. Nothing moves a fraction; frozen in time like some ancient malign magic.

Further enraged, she strides angrily towards the shadow and it instantly transforms into a recognisable shape – a person launching into a dash across the plaza. Instinct overruling rational thought, Coco races after it without hesitation. She’s completely unarmed and dressed in a heavy winter coat with thick furred highland boots, which only hamper her efforts at keeping up with an extremely nimble adversary. It dashes around a corner and over a short wall, through the alpine garden of a noble’s estate; snow-topped pines scattering fine white powder as the figure shoves roughly between them.

Between gulps of freezing cold air, Coco sheds the coat and plans ahead, looking for shortcuts and an alternate route. Hardly a second to pause and the shadow is so far ahead, diminishing in size as it hurtles down a side-street. Mist swirls thickly as she follows, the crunch of salt and gravel beneath her feet. But now the alcohol in her blood is like a deadening torpor, numbing muscles and reflexes as she skirts around an outdoor shed and sees the shadow leap onto a roof. She vaults over a wooden fence coated in rime and lands squarely on a patch of black ice, skittering unsteadily in flat-soled snow boots.

“Concordia, wait!” Hope’s voice shouts from somewhere behind and she twists instinctively, overbalancing and falling forward through the air. Her injured arm slams into the corner of a stone feeding trough and the world goes dark for a moment, bursting back into life with sudden flaring agony. Everything is too bright, too raw; electric hot and searing white.

Pushing through the torment Coco manages to stand, weakly clutching the liquid inferno of her shoulder. Through hot tear-soaked vision the figure is silhouetted in an alley ahead, mocking in its silent triumph. Indignation grinds against that screaming pain threshold and somehow the resolve to move forces one step after another towards the shadowy foe. It flickers lightning fast for a living being, outpacing the sluggish off-duty paladin and disappears into darkness once more.

Defeated both mentally and physically, Coco sinks to the ground powerlessly. She bites back tears as salt-infused snow melt begins to seep into her leather trousers. In that one instance everything conspires against her : it begins to snow heavily and tiny pieces of grit scattered on the pavement stab into her knees and bare hands, the latter already turned blue in this punishing cold; pain and misery drown out lucidity in equal measure. Once again, the shadow has reduced this paladin into a pile of broken shards and a shattered emotional shell of her true self.

Hope arrives then and wraps the abandoned coat delicately around her shoulders, pulling her against his blissful warmth. “Let go,” he whispers breathlessly into Coco’s snowflake-peppered hair. “Stop fighting yourself and let go. I’m here for you.”

Decimated so, she sobs against Hope’s chest as he holds her. “Why won’t it leave me alone?” she cries impotently. Bursting the banks of a reservoir shored up for decades as she’d sought to harden herself, the tears surge forth and suffocate any resistance. The heavy lamentation chokes Coco’s throat, crushes her lungs and empties her of any residual dignity.

Time dilates as they embrace in the middle of a dark Ishgardian street, slowly covered by crisp falling snow. Eventually, she runs dry and stills, huddled against Hope as he strokes tender fingers through her hair and whispers soothing kindness. At some indeterminate point he helps Coco to stand, unable to rouse herself against an agonisingly pounding headache. She’s soaked wet through, chilled to the bone and utterly, completely miserable. But a figure blocks their path. It pulls back a hood to reveal Raen horns and frost-white bangs, those unmistakable magenta irises – Onayo from The Quicksand in Ul'dah.

“You!” Coco hisses with bitter rage, ignoring the liquid heat of her injuries. “All of this time and it was you!”

“The Consortium sent me to watch over you. Your shoulder, it needs a healer’s ministrations.” The Auri woman takes a step forward and holds out a sympathetic hand, similarly cloaked in night black cloth. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“No? What did you anticipate, tormenting me from the shadows? Watching me, spying on us in private moments.” Coco feels at once ashamed and indignant, helpless to express that feeling now that adrenaline has abandoned her. There’s just an overwhelming torpidity leeching vigour out into the cold night air. “Why didn’t you just approach me?”

Onayo sighs a cloud of white breath. “It was important he didn’t see me. It could have jeopardised the entire operation.”

Hope slides his arm around Coco supportively. “I don’t care who claim to be,” he growls with a startling ferocity. “You pushed too hard. Look at what your actions have done!”

“I’m sorry but it was necessary given the circumstance,” Onayo shrugs diffidently. “Now that he’s gone I can – ”

“Just stop,” Coco sighs drowsily through the miasma of pain. “Start from the beginning. Explain. We’re listening.”

Those pink ringlets shine unnaturally in the gloom. A swirl of embittered wintry air whistles between buildings and tousles loose hair, contorting skin to gooseflesh and a cold-prickled redness shared by all three participants here.

“You weren’t chasing me just now. You were chasing him, the killer you’ve been so intent on tracking down,” Onayo says grimly. “For some reason it seems he’s toying with you and taking your measure. We didn’t leave the note with a list of names, adventurer. He did. And now we need your help to apprehend him before he strikes again. If the killer escapes us here, he will absolutely head straight for Gridania and your little healer friend.”

 _Lhei!_ Coco’s heart twists painfully upon hearing that. She feels so tired of everything; guilty for the shattered remnants of a romantic evening with Hope, weakened by turmoil, stressed by adversity and resolved – doggedly determined to finish this once and for all.


	19. « Skysteel Manufactory – The Holy See of Ishgard, Eorzea │ day forty two »

Hope pulls one document from a towering stack and briefly glances at it, his mind elsewhere. Ever since that night of their evening out six whole days ago, Coco has remained somewhat distant. He’s concerned for her state of mind, not for one second believing everything Onayo had told them. There are far too many coincidental happenings, spurious claims and obvious looming questions.

Perhaps Hope is overly suspicious but he feels Coco is being manipulated in her weakened emotional capacity. Knowing even a fraction of the woman’s gallantry – and the ferocity with which she upholds that paladin’s oath – one could all too easily mention Lhei’s name to garner her friend’s unyielding support.

He wonders whether he should step in and be rational where she can’t; if he should perhaps delicately explain his misgivings and convince Coco to take notice. Maybe tonight over dinner. Gaze roving over the small package wrapped in brown paper, Hope is reminded of the recent need to bolster her ailing mood with token gifts and companionship. When she allows it, that is. He adds a half pound of heavenly kukuru powder to his mental list of expenses and calculates the remainder of that three hundred thousand gil Pahn'a had given him. Less than a fifth now, but economising had paid off so far.

Sighing, Hope skims the sheet before him and pulls yet another from the stack, this time almost falling off his chair in shock. He stands up shakily and opens the door, anxiety knotting within his stomach. “Master Garlond?” he calls across the workshop. A white mane of hair rises up from behind a mountain of crates and turns in Hope’s direction. “Could I speak to you for a moment, please?”

Shortly afterwards in the relative seclusion of the office, Hope clears the desk and spreads a detailed schematic out over its surface, heart fluttering like a caged bird.

“Can you tell me what this is?” he asks. Garlond Ironwork’s chief engineer takes a quick look before announcing that it’s an Allagan dreadnought. _That’s incredible_ , Hope silently marvels. _They even use the same name! How is that possible?_ He takes a deep breath to quell the nervousness brimming inside, speaking slowly so there’s no confusion. “It’s not Allagan. It comes from my world and I can prove it. Where did you find this? Are there more constructs just like it?”

“Several. I managed to raise funds for a survey team to go in and retrieve it from an Allagan ship buried malms underground. Of course, all of them deactivated and more than a little non-functioning, but you’re telling me it’s not native, huh? Go on.”

His mind racing, Hope explains that the dreadnoughts are old Pulsian automata used in deep earth mining operations. Operated manually for such tasks, their standby mode consists of a defensive paradigm used to keep intruders out of dangerous places. Dreadnoughts themselves are equipped with a variety of weapon systems, which he points out to Cid on the schematic. Going even further, he explains the differences between the basic energy converter used to power this machine in the drawing with their original positron cores back on Pulse. It’s an astounding revelation.

“I’m surmising it’s easier to replace the power system rather than reverse-engineering sub-atomic technology that doesn’t exist on Hydaelyn,” Hope muses and absently combs a hand through his silver hair. “From what I can see everything else is identical. But why appropriate dreadnoughts of all things? What would they gain that they couldn’t manufacture already?”

“Wait, wait. Hold on, lad.” Cid sits himself down into a chair opposite. “You’re suggesting our friendly old Allagans aren’t merely technologically-advanced but actually visited different worlds in order to steal machinery for themselves?”

With a shrug Hope counters, “How else do you explain the presence of our technology on your world?” A quiet calm falls over the room as both men think. “Based on your estimate, how old is the ship you salvaged the dreadnought from?”

The older man leans back and strokes his chin thoughtfully. “According to my patchy knowledge of ancient history, four and a half thousand years or thereabouts. I suppose that theory explains certain things, but where are you going with this?”

Hope walks over to the window consumed in thought. He hadn’t expected it’d be that long ago. Automata technology didn’t exist that far back on Pulse, especially of the kind he’s seeing in schematics here. That leaves two logical conclusions : dreadnoughts really are of Allagan make and somehow ended up transplanted on Gran Pulse, or – that most personal of Hope’s curses – time distortion is involved.

The former feels unlikely given his extensive knowledge of Pulsian history. However, he has absolutely no idea of what the Allag had achieved at the height of their reign. If they could build an artificial moon designed to siphon energy from an elder primal, what else could they have been be capable of? The possibilities are potentially limitless.

Still, that most pertinent of questions Hope has asked himself since arriving in this world may have an answer now. What if he could return to Academia? Staring out at a blizzard raging beyond the room itself, he feels an old sense of determination taking hold. It had been something so familiar as Director of the Academy – ingrained upon Hope’s everyday life like the act of breathing itself – but he’d painfully felt its absence in Eorzea. It’s the act of working to achieve a goal, to carve out a solution.

Perhaps that’s the very purpose Coco had meant that night beneath the stars. Coco. His heart twists even as his scientific mind races with potential avenues of research. He’d promised to be back in time for dinner and it’s already after 6pm. Turning around, Hope notices Cid watching him with a curious look.

“So young Master Estheim, what’s the verdict?” he questions in an amused tone. “Didn’t want to interrupt that bout of deep thought there but the suspense is killing me.”

Hope sees so many aspects of himself in Cid, obvious yet older and tempered harder by time. It’d taken mere days for trust to build up between the two of them, with Hope soon conveying most facts about his unplanned cross-universe voyage. Strangely there’d been little contention and Cid had embraced the knowledge with a refreshingly familiar systematic zeal.

“I’m not young nor a master of anything,” Hope rebuffs with a modest smile. “But according to that logic we so firmly place ourselves in the care of, I’m curious. If the Allag did indeed salvage dreadnoughts from Pulse it may be possible to travel back. How, I have absolutely no idea. For that particular colossus of a quandary I believe I’ll require your assistance.”

After warring against a fierce headwind and barrages of freezing snow, Hope eventually arrives back at the estate. Scientific wonder had sustained him throughout and wiled away most of the journey, drawing his mind away from the physical discomfort of Ishgard’s unforgiving climate. Just when it had seemed all avenues of returning to Academia were closed off, this tantalising little tease had landed right in front of Hope. Given the prior connection between both of their worlds, perhaps the prospect isn’t so ridiculous after all. What if he really could go home?

Kicking compacted snow from his boots, Hope scales the steps of Cantillon House and pushes the heavy door open, passing through into heavenly warmth at last. Compared to the deadening cold of that blizzard it’s like a tender embrace wrapping around him in welcome folds. He sighs in relief and feels his stomach growling in response to a rich savoury aroma floating deliciously through the air. As he wanders past the salon on route to dinner, Hope’s attention is drawn by firelight glowing within the chamber’s hearth.

Coco is curled up in a deep green armchair by the fire, her gaze unsurprisingly buried in the Crystarium. Hope lingers a while, merely watching her. After everything she’s been through he’s heartened by the fact she finds comfort in something so indelible as knowledge. That it’s administered by a device of his world only sweetens the deal.

“Ah, Concordia with the Crystarium clutched tenderly in her grasp,” Hope announces and walks towards the blazing hearth. “The two of you are inseparable as soon as I’m not around. You’re inexplicably drawn to each other and I’m envious.”

“Hey.” Even within that single word her voice sounds tired and flat. She smiles slowly. “It could never replace you, Hope.”

A light laugh and he suggests, “That’s debatable. But I suppose there are some advantages I have over a sheet of crystal glass.” Gazing at her, he crouches down beside the armchair and places the parcel wrapped in brown paper into Coco’s lap. Her expression lingers at curiosity and contorts into a gentle frown, eventually regarding Hope with a softened look.

Coco sighs as she begins to unwrap the gift. “Oh. You don’t have to buy me anything. I appreciate the gesture but – oh! This is really expensive. And very lovely.” Those hewn malachite eyes behold him, fringed with uncertainty. “Are you sure about this?” she asks and he nods, happy to see her spirits lifted even briefly. “Thank you so much.”

She squeezes his arm affectionately and then stands, elongating into a curved stretch towards the ceiling. A slow meander leads Coco out into the hallway as she nestles the box of kukuru powder against her chest and informs him that dinner should be ready soon. Picking up the Crystarium, Hope is struck by the domesticity of their arrangement; like there’s something deeply intimate about their relationship instead of this perplexing middle ground. He knows it’s partly his fault for not being more forthcoming about his feelings, but that’s a trait belonging to a confident man – one assured of himself.

Dinner itself is a wonderful spread of food. A flavourful root vegetable broth with crusty white bread followed by lean steak. Alpine antelope, Coco tells him whilst spooning roasted potatoes and carrots onto his plate. Dessert is a bowl of whipped cream mousse with small red berries scattered throughout; very refreshing after such savoury fare. The small pockets of fruit burst with sweetness and taste vaguely familiar to redcurrants back home.

Partway through the meal, Coco asks about his day and Hope rushes through a summary before excitedly telling her about the dreadnought. He recounts memories of them from his youth and of studying their design much later in life, sitting at his desk during lunch breaks with old Pulsian textbooks found in an abandoned town. Then he wonders out loud if there are any other such automata the Allagan Empire found curious enough to take on their voyage spanning multiple universes.

Coco listens quietly as Hope muses that it would have been much safer to collect samples from Gran Pulse rather than breaching Cocoon’s defensive line. Cid, he mentions, is going to help in the endeavour himself by gathering resources and information.

“Can you imagine the implications of such a discovery, though?” Hope wonders aloud as Coco stares at her untouched dessert, idly picking at it with a spoon. His mind is alive with branching thoughts, ideas and avenues of research. It’s potentially limitless in scope, if only they can find a way to connect the dots.

“You could go home to Academia.” Her voice is oddly hollow.

“Not only that, but the precedent for travelling to another world without being thrown through an AMP portal has already been set.” Existential wonderment floods through Hope unabated and he continues on. “If our worlds are connected by the Void, how many others are? What if we could visit them and learn about entire new civilisations and their technologies? Maybe they’ll have chaos or aether too. Perhaps something entirely different that neither of us has ever dared imagine.”

He turns the Crystarium around to show Coco a dreadnought from the Vile Peaks back on Cocoon. Hope remembers being there himself as a newly-turned l'Cie teenager countless eons ago. Her fingers brush against the screen as she remains completely silent. A whole minute passes without event. Standing suddenly, Coco picks up her dish and hastily turns her back to him as she deposits dirty cutlery into the sink.

“I’m pleased for you, Hope. That’s the reason I wrote to Master Garlond after all, so you could discover these things.”

Quite bemused, he gathers his dinner plates and joins her at the counter. As he slides a hand tenderly along Coco’s spine, she flinches and goes rigidly tense. The strong reaction confuses Hope and so he offers in conciliatory fashion, “I’m sorry I was late home for dinner. I know I promised I’d be here on time.”

Her voice is an ethereal whisper. “It’s okay. I’m going to bed early. Can I take it with me?” Hope nods, knowing she means the Crystarium. It had been the same situation every night. If only he dare suggest Coco take him instead and then he’d be able to prove those feelings. “Leave the dishes till the morning and I’ll do them. Thank you again for the gift,” she says.

And then she’s gone. Hope is left standing there, keenly aware that without Coco the kitchen is a barren, desolate place. She makes it come alive with hot plates and aromatic scents, delicious meals conjured out of plain ingredients and her own undeniable subsistence – everything that he enjoys being close to.

Setting a pail of water to boil on the hearth, he tips liquid soap out of a painted bottle onto the dishes and turns around, clearing the table amid a haze of introspection. Methodically, Hope goes through the housework in this room and then checks the salon, content that the fire is smouldering out by itself. Onward onto the next chamber and whatever chores lay within.

The thought that he’s procrastinating only occurs to him when he’s at the front door an hour later, turning the key in its lock. Perhaps Coco had a bad day. He’d been neglectful in asking, so desperately he’d wanted to tell her about science and that miraculous connection to Pulse itself. Thinking about that, he wanders into the kitchen and heats up some milk, then makes just one mug of sweet hot chocolate with heavenly kukuru powder.

When Hope arrives at Coco’s bedroom door with it, he hears a low sobbing from within. Distraught at her sorrow, he pushes through to find her curled up on the bed, head buried into a pillow as she cries. She’s wearing a silk nightdress the colour of juniper berries and a long flowing robe of darkened pine. Abandoned within the crescent shape formed by Coco’s body is the Crystarium, inert as a normal pane of glass would look.

“Hey, hey. What’s the matter?” Hope asks, placing the mug onto a bedside cabinet and sitting down beside her. He’s reluctant to form contact after what happened in the kitchen but it pains him to see her this way. Coco’s beautiful eyes are lined red and puffed all around. Runnels of salt water run down her cheeks and onto the bedlinen.

“Hope?” she manages, drawing in a shuddering breath. “I – I’m so sorry. I was just reading and it … went off.”

“What did?” His heart wrenches as she sobs again. “Hush. Take it slowly and tell me what happened.”

Another shaky breath. “I broke it. I can’t make it work any more. I’m so sorry and I … understand if you’re angry at me.”

Despite earlier misgivings, Hope reaches out to stroke away a tear dripping down her face. This time she doesn’t flinch. He then reaches for the Crystarium, its screen spattered with Coco’s materialised sorrow, and holds a thumb to the upper right corner. It won’t awaken but he immediately knows what the problem is. Smiling softly, he deposits it onto the bedside cabinet before reclining supine at Coco’s side.

“Well, it actually lasted long than I anticipated.” Silent interrogation stares at him so Hope explains, “It’s in power conservation mode because a certain someone has been playing with it too much. I wonder who that could be, hmm.”

“So it’s not broken?” Her voice is so timid and fragile right then, completely at odds with the powerful woman he knows.

Hope shakes his head. “The Crystarium is charged by sunlight. It takes power from the sun and converts it into energy which it uses to function, but since there is almost constant cloud cover here that hasn’t helped. All we need is a nice sunny day and you’ll be reunited with your lost love.” He smiles as Coco huffs and glances down at the bed. “Then I’ll go back to being envious once more.”

“That’s not really true, is it?” she asks, sniffling and wiping away tears.

“Perhaps a little more than you’d think.” Hope feels a knot of tension as their eyes meet. There’s that categorical draw quickening his heartbeat and loosening inhibitions. Slowly he breathes, “It does get to spend each night alone with you.”

Coco’s face falls into a surprised expression and there’s a sharp intake of breath. Suddenly she’s staring back down at the bed linen, poking it distractedly with a forefinger, but he can see a tiny smile curling up on her lips. She laughs nervously and says, “It’s not like we do anything naughty, you know. It’s just an inanimate but very fascinating object.”

“So you say. Yet it keeps you awake until the early hours of the morning when you finally doze off, exhausted by it.”

“Oh Hope.”

It seems that illicit reference wasn’t lost on Coco at all. This tear-stained version of her is so vulnerable and also beautiful in an entirely different light. That she’d taken to being a paladin in not only a physical sense but as sentinel to her emotions too had been natural given her constitution; a shield wall to contain herself within and steel resolve repelling any invader. But Hope has seen Coco change gradually since that Echo vision; unravelling like a series of twisted knots, allowing them to become close and blossoming into an even more complicated woman than Pahn'a had described all that time ago.

Hope reaches up to stroke her jaw and she looses a tortured sigh. “Are you okay?” he asks, edging closer on the bed.

“Not really. I did a stupid thing earlier.” Coco’s free hand comes to rest on Hope’s chest, directly above his heart. Her eyes focus briefly on him and then flicker away. “Because I’ve been so worried about Lhei, I tried to contact Pan over the linkshell. But it seems that the Maelstrom have intercepted a pearl and a man threatened me into surrendering. So I smashed it.”

“Can linkpearls be traced?” he asks, sliding the caress down onto her bare shoulder. Surely Coco can feel his heart racing.

“No, but it spooked me. Onayo hasn’t contacted us since that night we had dinner so I have no idea what’s going on. Now I have two shadows following me around instead of just one and I’m inundated with requests from the nobles. Favours from an adventurer in return for aid and exclusive information, as if I don’t have enough to deal with at the moment.” She pauses then, fingers worrying at Hope’s shirt buttons. When the first few are unfastened he wonders at her intent. “I’m exhausted.”

“What can I do to help, Concordia?” It takes almost all Academy training to school his voice away from abject nervousness. If she expects anything similar to the athletic musculature she’s presumably used to in a man, there’ll be disappointment. Her mouth opens wordlessly and then closes, breathing a troubled sigh before she continues her vigil with the buttons. Coco’s touch against Hope’s bare chest feels like electricity arcing between every single nerve; dangerous and thrilling.

“Have you ever wanted something so badly and yet been terrified of it at the same time?” she asks.

“Yes.” _I’m staring at her right now_ , Hope whispers to himself. At this proximity, who knows if thoughts are audible. The wandering caress of her fingertips is distracting him entirely too much, setting off reactions he can barely control.

“What am I supposed to do? Throw caution to the wind or remain safe behind my shield, suffering from afar?”

Coasting down her arm slowly he breathes, “That depends on what, or whom, you’re referring to. Caution is wonderful until you realise how much of life it causes you to miss out on. I’ve only just discovered that myself, Concordia.”

Doused in that apprehensive swiftness Hope has come to recognise, Coco lies down and presses that beautiful Elezen body against him, moulding herself beneath his right arm. Her head rests upon Hope’s chest, hand still buried under his shirt and stroking the other side, whilst she clenches his right leg between both of hers – amazingly long and so very naked.

As if that isn’t enough to overwhelm Hope with sensory overload, Coco relocates his hand from her arm onto her uncovered thigh. It feels like warm satin, eliciting a momentary shudder through him as he struggles to maintain that affected normalcy.

“So it’s not unbreakable after all,” she remarks with a smile. Hope frowns at her. “Your own shield. The metaphysical one.”

“Not against you. The entirety of my schooling brought to bear and you disable it effortlessly. It’s difficult to remain stoic.”

“Then don’t Hope.” Coco’s voice is redolent but exhausted. “Who knows how long we have left together?”

Despite that absolute invitation in her actions and words, he can’t make the final leap over the chasm. To even consider being coiled in the throes of lovemaking presents a schism too wide; an intense fear of disappointing Coco with inexperience and rampant nervousness, countered by a raw desire to consummate this halfway relationship into something stronger.

Hope almost yields, his heightened state of arousal so much more powerful than anything he’s experienced before. What if he allowed it to happen? How many complications would that usher in? Absently he wonders if their DNA would be compatible; if his union with Coco could produce something encapsulating two universes – the progeny of chaos and aether.

But all of that rumination comes at a cost. Murmuring unintelligible words against his palpitating chest, Coco is soundly asleep now. The fingers of her sword hand twitch once and then she settles. Safe from the culmination Hope regards her objectively. That juniper nightdress hardly conceals much, leaving little to his relatively uncreative imagination, yet it’s not everything he desires. Stroking a hand under the silk along Coco’s naked thigh to just beneath her underarm, Hope finds himself wishing she were awake once more. Even so hotly cocooned within her embrace, physicality isn’t enough.

It has been a day filled with wonders : a productive morning of research, the earth-shattering discovery of an Eorzean dreadnought, that wonderfully epicurean dinner and now this – their intimacy risen even further. Confronted by a wave of emotions, Hope begins to doubt that newly re-discovered enthusiasm that had been so integral as Director of the Academy. No longer the same man he’d been upon that fateful night – forcefully tossed into an AMP portal to another world – he’s changed; perhaps too substantially for a science quandary of this magnitude. Does he even possess the capability to return home now?

Tenderly drawing Coco’s body even closer, Hope wonders what Academia would make of its Director blissfully quiescent in the arms of a barely clothed woman; this beautiful labyrinthine paladin of Eorzea that Hope Estheim has fallen impossibly in love with.


	20. « Cantillon House Estate – The Holy See of Ishgard, Eorzea │ day forty two »

Enfolded in warmth and wrapped in darkness, Coco regains consciousness from the world of inconceivable dreams. She’d been flying over the Dravanian hinterlands on the back of a dragon, racing home to meet her grandfather, when they were attacked on route.

Mean-faced archers and bristling dragoons, a barrage of mighty lances fired into the sky and all of them fell short of their mark. A shadow came next; his midnight hide glistening in sunset’s radiant hues as he twisted in the air, grappling with Coco’s winged protector before giving up and spiralling out of view with a baleful roar. Against all odds the brave little girl and her saviour – the dragon with silver scales shimmering in soft moonshine – had made it.

Opposing the light of another Ishgardian day Coco is drawn to a heat source beneath her fingers. Nuzzling against it rewards her with a dull rhythmic thud – heartbeat. Exploring further, she encounters an undulating terrain of soft warmth; feels the rush of air shuddering down the back of her neck and hears faint disquieting groans.

Entering into the waking world Coco is greeted by Hope, but in a suffering and unconscious state. Twitches shiver through him, his gentle mouth is parted and dry, those erudite eyes are scrunched tight and crusted with sleep; one solitary tear careening softly down his cheek. Touching her forehead to his, Coco becomes disoriented in familiar fashion – but this time fades to black instead of white.

A barren lifeless shelf of land. One colossally tempestuous thunderstorm pulverises the ground with lilac forks. Cold dread and fear slithers down her intangible spine with paralysing ooze. Her lungs tighten upon beholding the immense orb of pure crystal suspended upon a pillar – _Cocoon_ , her host’s memory whispers. Undeniably spectacular as flashes of lightning caress its surface, there’s a loud crack like a mountain breaking and it’s abruptly falling to earth.

Coco is overcome with a desperation to save all of the people inside of it; to protect the lower world from being decimated by a trillion shards of glass. Suddenly she can’t breathe, choking on sharp crystal dust. And then she looks down to find herself almost riven in half by Cocoon’s detritus, the shock expelling her out of the Echo vision and back into bed beside Hope.

Feeling his pain in the real world, Coco envelopes him against her chest. Stroking his hair and whispering softly that it’s going to be okay, she realises that’s what the nausea had been in Crimson Bark – shattering glass and waves of darkness – Hope’s nightmare. He groans in fear, fingers unconsciously gripping onto Coco’s arm, and squirms briefly against her. But then he begins to settle and calmness replaces the panic, gradually returning her beloved to a state of peaceful slumber.

For a while, they lay there entwined as guardian and ward intimately connected then Coco remembers what happened last night; how she tried to seduce Hope and failed. She sighs then places a forbidden kiss onto his forehead before slipping out from under the throw and emerging into brittle cold of the bedchamber. Quietly so as not to wake him, Coco starts a fire in the hearth and tiptoes around the room gathering a fresh set of clothing before leaving. The iced-over water in the bathroom rouses her as it’s scrubbed against skin and stinging cold as she brushes her teeth, causing shivers through and through.

More than a bell later, Coco is standing outside of Skysteel exhaling great clouds of breath as a dragon would fiery doom upon Ishgardian knights before history had righted itself. Her shoulder aches, repeatedly jarred during the morning run that had led back here again, and she rolls it carefully to stretch muscle. The Manufactory’s side door opens then and a familiar figure emerges carrying two empty metal pails. He catches sight of her and beams.

“Well, hello beautiful.” Romillioux drops into an impromptu bow and comes to stand by Coco. “Fate brought you to our workshop again, has it? Got another urgent letter for the chief?”

She looks at him with a critical eye, seeing slicked-back chestnut hair and sharply defined facial features. Vaguely handsome for an Elezen, but they had never drawn this woman’s attention. It had always been Hyuran men. “Good morning,” she says.

“I never did catch your name. May I?” Romillioux laughs heartily when she tells him. “Ah! So you’re Coco! He talks about you, that silver-haired lad the chief took under his wing. Paladin ain’t you? Adventurer too.” The engineer takes in her curious expression and grins. “What a rare beauty. A female knight come to save our fair Ishgard from evil.”

“You have a gift for embellishment,” Coco says with a bashful smile. He’s charming at least. “But yes, I am indeed a paladin.”

“Mayhap you heard what went down at Falcon’s Nest last night then?” She shakes her head and Romillioux continues. “One of the lads who lives there was telling us about a murder. Woman killed with a kitchen knife in her back. Doubt Temple Knights will care about such a thing but adventurers might? Especially a paladin.”

Feeling the onset of stress again, Coco presses the man for details but that’s all he knows. Her mind deliberates upon whether she can make the 8 o'clock airship if she hurries back home to change, belatedly aware that wasting time thinking won’t help in that endeavour.

After another wash with icy water, Coco changes into insulated clothing and dons the set of adamantite plate she’d brought in one of the luggage crates. Walking past her bedchamber, she peeks through a crack in the door to see that Hope is peacefully asleep and snuggled up warm beneath the woollen throw. Would that she could be there when he wakes up; naturally receptive to seduction in the morning if he’s like any other man.

But standing at the airship dock some time later, Coco wonders if he is. Perhaps Hope is content to maintain their status quo; to stroke and touch and embrace, but not actually bed her. Maybe he needs to be in love with a woman before he’ll do that, which would explain his refusal last night. Compared to some of the stunningly beautiful individuals Coco has seen on the Crystarium – with their advanced educations and perfect sublime bodies without a single ugly scar – how could she compete? What did she have for Hope to fall in love with apart from a legacy of physical and mental damage or the blithe stupidity of Eorzeans compared to Academians? Nothing. A distraction, perhaps, until he finds a way home.

Anguish coiling in her midriff, Coco watches the compact aircraft solidify out of icy mist and grow until it settles into the dock’s holding bay. Steam from its ceruleum engine warps the air with heatwaves as a boarding plank is lowered down and a bell tolls out loud. People disembark in single file, shivering at the temperature difference out here in Ishgard’s brittle clime. And then Coco sees it at the very periphery of her vision – the shadow. But which one is it : benign or malevolent?

She turns ever so slightly, head tracking each person gathering at the arrivals gate as if looking for someone. Others are boarding now, presenting tickets and heading into the airship’s warm belly. Coco waits, painfully aware of every single movement. Tension thrums within her chest. When a steward chains the departure gate and begins to approach the boarding plank, she whirls around with surprising cadence for one clad in metal. Sprinting at full speed she vaults the gate, traverses the platform and makes a single bound onto the airship, earning the wrath of its Elezen ticketmaster. With an apologetic shrug Coco presents the ticket she’d bought in advance and only just catches sight of a stranded Onayo before the door closes.

Falcon’s Nest is being battered by icy winds when they eventually do arrive. One poor woman dashes down the ramp and voids her stomach over the dock’s cliff wall, so turbulent that inbound journey had been. Pulling the blue fox fur cloak tightly around both shoulders, Coco encloses her gauntleted fingers around Almace’s hilt and pushes past a Roegadyn adventurer blocking the doorway. The blast of cold feels like a thousand ice needles driving themselves into her exposed skin and she gasps, lips crackling at the sub-zero humidity. That warm Hope-filled bed seems so much more inviting than usual right now.

Unsurprisingly, the hamlet is deserted when Coco wanders into the central square. At the western edge by some scaffolding is the victim’s body covered by a thin sheet pinioned by several stone blocks. The young woman is a Wildwood too, long walnut coloured strands of hair cavorting in the wind as Coco examines her. Skin fair and unblemished unlike that of a low-born citizen working in this inhospitable climate every day, it appears the victim is of noble birth. Someone had removed the knife and lain it upon her stomach, but the ragged wound looks haphazard; entirely too rough to be the work of a professional. It had probably sliced into the side of her heart rather than piercing it outright. A painful, protracted death.

Coco sees the locket around the woman’s neck and removes it, assured then this hadn’t been a robbery gone awry. Surely they’d have taken it in that case. It’s a silver figurine of Halone carved with small letters upon the flattened back side – ‘To my daughter, Cicely Lavergne’. _That must be her name_ , Coco surmises, standing to see a man watching her from a nearby house. He’s half-concealed by the open door but that cold stare is plainly not welcoming.

“Excuse me,” she calls and heads directly towards him. “What can you tell me about this lady or the events of last night?” The wooden door is slammed in her face and Coco hears it being bolted from within. For several seconds she stands there unmoving and in quiet shock. Then, more than a little perturbed, she heads to the Falcon’s Nest alehouse.

There are precisely four people in the spacious common room warmed through with a blazing fire. One is the bartender himself; a stout Highlander wrapped in fur clothing with a wild blond curl of hair atop his head and a bushy beard lining the very square jawline. The second is a Midlander with piercing blue eyes that stare unreservedly. He’s nursing a tankard in the far corner. Third and fourth are an Elezen serving maid and the Roegadyn man Coco had seen on the airship. A bolt-action rifle is slung across his back.

Cautious after that unexpected brush-off earlier, she sits down at one of many empty tables and pulls the notebook from her leather bag. Sketching until the serving maid approaches, Coco busies herself in capturing details down in pencil stroke. That Midlander is staring every time she glances up. It seems people in Falcon’s Nest are as frigid as the Coerthan climate.

“Yes ma'am. What can I get fer ye?” The maid’s thick lowland accent marks her as a Falcon’s Nest native and low-born. She has dull black hair cropped short and a small crescent-shaped scar beneath one eye.

“Information,” Coco says quietly, eyes fixed on the bartender. He’s engaging the Roegadyn in conversation now. “What can you tell me about the woman who was murdered here last night?”

Terror grips the maid’s face, brown eyes widening in fear. She freezes and keeps her back deliberately faced towards the Hyuran man in the corner, who’s now risen up and is heading towards them at a stride. “H-hot barleywine?” she says overly loud. “O’ course ma'am. Comin’ righ’ up.”

The Midlander watches the maid leave and then sits down directly opposite Coco, ice blue eyes boring into her. Without breaking the stare, she flips the notebook closed and deposits it back into her bag. Tension looms overhead.

“The Nest don’t like people sticking their noses into others’ business,” he snarls unkindly. “I suggest you back off or maybe you’ll end up getting shanked too. We don’t need no noble’s pet asking too many questions so piss off back to Ishgard.”

So that’s how it is. This man believes she’s been sent by a noble to investigate, neatly confirming the poor victim’s social status. Coco smiles at him disarmingly. She’s been intimidated by much fiercer antagonists in her time as an adventurer and this man is nothing more than a callow bully. It’s everywhere in his body language : the stare, one hand fisted upon the tabletop, his borderline nervous twitch and that hollow threat. He doesn’t expect her reaction and glowers but it still causes adrenaline to flow. Confrontation on any level isn’t this particular paladin’s favourite social nicety.

“I can fend for myself, I assure you.” To iterate, Coco unsheathes Almace and lays it across the table quietly. Her right hand closes around its hilt whilst the fingers of her left stroke the sword’s leading edge. Such an overt show of force makes the man back away from the table, anger burning upon his face. Despite withdrawing from the failed attempt at intimidation, he gazes at Almace almost lustfully and then glares poisonous daggers at its owner. She sees the darkness in that look and matches it, refusing to yield. A moment later and he’s racing out of the tavern door leaving a string of curses behind.

At once, the maid returns with a flagon of something dark-coloured and acridly odorous. But what draws Coco’s attention is the small slip of parchment concealed beneath it – a message telling her to be outside of the hamlet’s bulwark, fifty paces into Riversmeet by a gnarled cedar tree. Until the specified time it states, Coco is determined not to let that noble woman’s death pass into just another rural accident. She needs answers. A slammed door and local hostility do little to dissuade that.

Naturally, the icy wind has deteriorated into a pelting blizzard by the time she espies a figure approaching from Falcon’s Nest. Not discounting the possibility that it’s a set-up or deliberate trap, Coco has chosen to settle Ancile into her left hand. Aching with the persistent tendrils of cold leaking through both armour and felt underclothing, her shoulder is once again exerting its dominant suffering upon the rest of her body. A splinter of pain lances down Coco’s side as she straightens, ready to greet whoever draws near.

“Beg pardon ma'am.” The figure draws back a heavy woollen hood to reveal cropped black hair – the serving maid herself.

Coco greets her cordially and requests she stand behind the tree, blocking direct sight from Falcon’s Nest itself. Even in the forceful wind she’d be remiss to exclude the possibility of an archer sitting atop one of those high walls. Though it would be impressive to hit a target this far out and compensate for the abominable weather, caution prevails.

“What’s your name and why are you risking yourself to meet with me?” the paladin asks, wrapping herself in the fur cloak. She’d been able to get absolutely nothing from the hamlet’s residents other than blank stares and unfriendly silence.

“Idette. The woman what was murdered is my friend, Cicely. Afore I tell ye anythin’ I need ye to protect me from them back in the Nest. Ol’ Marshall, he told me not to meet with ye. Said I’d not be welcome no more. But I can’t stay quiet, not now.”

“How can I be sure you’re telling the truth?” Coco asks, entirely too suspicious after facing adversity for an entire bell of wandering around searching for answers. Wind whistles shrilly through dead branches of the old cedar; its offshoots clawing the white sky like a dead man’s bony hand.

Idette shivers and pulls the hood back down. She leans her back against the tree. “I can prove it if ye gimme chance to talk.” Coco motions for her to proceed. “Cicely were a free spirit. Never was content to stay in Ishgard with the ‘igher-ups and play pretty lil’ lady. Made the mistake o’ fallin’ in love wi’ the wrong man though. That were 'is brother ye met in the tavern, name o’ Dockett. But the men in that family, they ain’t right cause these accidents always 'appen sooner or later.”

Getting ever colder by the minute, Coco listens to the sad tale of a jealous rage and murder covered up by the hamlet as a whole. The last thing they want is the wrath of the noble-endorsed Temple Knights slammed down upon their shoulders for the actions of one man. But that doesn’t negate the heinous crime nor the loss of an innocent life, stolen away from her loving friends and family.

Pacing to keep herself warm in the blizzard, Coco sighs and ponders upon the outcome should she report directly to Ishgard. Perhaps she can convince the man to surrender quietly and spare Falcon’s Nest greater harm, but charisma has never been one of her strong points.

Through the white blur of this ever-worsening snowstorm a dark blot emerges. It grows in size until Coco can discern the shape of a figure running at speed towards them. A glint of metal shimmers with snow’s pure light and she takes a well-timed step back, appraising the figure stumbling awkwardly past. The weapon of choice is a tarnished spear brandished by Dockett himself – the Midlander with ice blue eyes. He re-balances and turns around, bracing himself for another attack.

“Stand down,” Coco sighs, affecting nonchalance whilst staying alert for sounds of others approaching. Making an unskilled fighter believe they’re not being taken seriously will generally set them off, forcing them into recklessness and causing mistakes to happen. No lancer of repute would ever hope to injure an armoured opponent with that battered old relic.

Dockett ignores her and charges again, this time aiming much higher. Without even needing to draw Almace, Coco catches the spear haft as it lurches past her shoulder and uses momentum to slide it out of the man’s grasp. With a metal-clad boot pushed against his back he goes flying. Sprawled face-down in the snow and completely disarmed now, Dockett remains still for a moment as Coco hears that distinctive sound straight out of her nightmares – the dull twang of a bowstring. The first arrow buries itself harmlessly in the snow several yalms out but the second hammers into the dead cedar bole with a resounding thud.

“Stay behind the tree!” she shouts to Idette who had ventured a few steps towards them. Archers in a blizzard. There are few things more absurd, but Coco won’t endanger anyone with complacency. The wind howls around them, tiny daggers of ice pummelling against her face. All of this cold is rousing a headache brought on by too many different factors. “Get up. Now!” she growls at Dockett, suddenly losing all patience with this idiot and his stupid, misguided assault out in the open.

He does so with hatred in those eyes, bunching both fists at his side and then throwing a blurringly fast right hook. Coco barely dodges in time, but the evaded blow lands dead-centre on her injured shoulder instead. Pain flares for a instant. Even through solid adamantite plate the jarring force pushes that arm backwards and she twists, hearing bones in Dockett’s hand crack upon impact. Now Coco is furious. All of this needless drama and of course they’ll blame her, once again subjected to a fool’s impudence just like the fat-headed bigot in Bronze Lake; except now he’s dead like a stuck pig. Her shoulder swims with hot agony as she roughly drags Dockett up by his collar and shoves him into a standing position.

Calling to Idette to stay behind with her head down, they march back into Falcon’s Nest at a rapacious speed. No better fate for a half-baked Hyuran moron than to be used as a literal shield against his equally ridiculous archer friend. _Gods-damned stupid archers trying to kill me in a blizzard_ , Coco snarls within. _The bane of my entire existence. What a cowardly, idiotic, worthless piece of scum. They can freeze out here in the sodding snow for all I care!_

Throwing a whimpering Dockett down by the tavern door Coco storms through and demands of Idette, “Where is that fool’s brother?” Cowering in the face of so many accusing stares, the raven-haired maid points to a man lurking in the same corner as the blue-eyed cretin had earlier. Giving the former maid instructions to wait at the airship dock with her belongings, Coco strides towards Dockett’s brother in a simmering rage. This man is even more pathetic than the one outside. He’s trying to withdraw so far into that fur jacket that he hopes the mean lady paladin will just go away, but Coco is having none of it.

“Stand up.” Her words aren’t a request, but a demand. She’s lost all semblance of patience now. “I said, stand up! Now!” He doesn’t move an ilm so she drags him up and forces him against the wall, Almace drawn and pointed upwards at his throat. “You killed her, didn’t you? You’re so pathetic that you stabbed her from behind whilst she was defenceless. The noble woman who loved you despite the differences. You ended her life because you thought she was cheating on you. After everything she gave up for you!” His silence only further infuriates Coco and so she shouts into his face, “Admit it!”

“Yes,” he sobs. He’s actually crying like a victim and not the cold-blooded murderer he is. “I killed Cicely and ran away.”

“Get outside.” She physically launches him towards the open door as her heart is racing with adrenaline-fuelled rage. “You’re going to face a murder charge with the Temple Knights. And you,” she turns to the tavern’s other patrons, glaring at them in turn. “You disgust me. Covering up the murder of an innocent woman because you hate the nobles so blindly and fear their retribution. Guess what? Now you’re just like them. You are what you’ve hated for so long. Enjoy the feeling while it lasts.”

Coco’s ire doesn’t dissipate in the slightest during the whole airship ride home, flanked by a worthless Hyur of no value and the one honest soul in that entire hamlet. She is so endlessly sick of being subjected to people’s weakness; of having to remain good and honourable where they’re allowed to pollute everything around them with wild abandon. Goodness always suffers whilst villainy thrives. A lifetime of upholding morals and an oath to protect the innocent and what has it earned Ser Coco Delouix, gallant paladin of Sharlayan and granddaughter to wise old Sylvain?

An unjust murder charge, forcing her away from friends and homestead, besmirching her flawless adventuring record; two feckless idiots scrounging around in shadow, not content with their own lives so they ruin hers; a friend who won’t stand up for her; the Grand Company she’d almost died for tossing her to the wolves. And a silver-haired man Coco saved from death, with whom she’s helplessly in love but who won’t bed her even when she throws herself at him. Rejection by apathy. That one fact obliterates any scrap of confidence Coco has left. There is nothing but abject sadness and cold fury within now.

Hope’s handwritten note in response to the one she’d left this morning and the gift of a single red carnation soften her heart, which makes her feel even more pathetic. But lying next to it is an envelope containing a message from Onayo – “Tonight. Brume fire pit. 1 am.”


	21. « The Brume, Foundation – The Holy See of Ishgard, Eorzea │ day forty three »

Tonight has the makings of a perfect winter’s eve to be spent by the hearth, wrapped up warm and indoors. Conglomerate in their spiralling decent to earth, snowflakes huddle together as they seek to coat everything in pristine whiteness. The sky above is overcast and yet perforated with pockets of diamond-studded blackness, occasionally backlit by the huge full moon glowing like milky opal. Soft blue light blunts the raw edges of scaffolding and partly-demolished buildings. Taciturn in the absence of daylight, this mountaintop citadel is now a self-contained realm of cold stone, icy rime and gloomy corners.

Herself consumed in shadow, Coco gazes out towards the countless pairs of eyes she can feel watching. It’s rare that residents of the Brume have an adventurer lingering in their midst at night, alone and unaccompanied. Such behaviour can be treacherous here, where a stolen sword or piece of armour liberated from the dead is worth a sack of food; a literal adjunct of survival. Knowing that, Coco had arrived prepared at the meeting place. The seven loaves of bread and a side of honeyed ham had ensured the destitute masses merely lurk somewhere beyond and don’t swarm to overpower her.

Instead, she is just freezing to death by exposure whilst waiting for Onayo to materialise. The layers of warm clothing and armour help – as does the simmering resentment of today’s events – but it’s been almost a bell and forty minutes now, judging by Foundation’s ornate clock tower. Given such a vacant expanse of time, Coco’s mind invariably lapses into thought. Fatigue gnaws hungrily within her skull behind both eyes and deep into her aching temples. Rolling the injured shoulder, she can’t help but suspect something terrible has happened to delay Onayo; perhaps another murder or a heart-racing pursuit through the iced-over streets of Ishgard. Whatever it is must be serious.

Another twenty minutes of onerous thought and Coco sighs dejectedly, worn down by fate’s relentless punishment. She pushes off from the wooden pillar and skirts around the glowing firepit, heading off back home at a slow pace. If only there was something more than a cold bed awaiting her. Passing a dark alley, Coco feels the biting cold pressing against her neck – until she realises it’s a blade of metal and not an errant wisp of boreal wind. Instinctively, her right hand seeks Almace.

“Don’t.” The voice is low, unmistakably male. “I can kill you before that sword is even drawn. Now move, down there.”

In the narrow space between two buildings it’s pitch black and difficult to traverse the obstacle course of garbage. Soaked in the alley’s fetid odour, Coco stumbles several times and is dragged back into a standing position, knife rapidly resuming its threat against bare skin. She tries to calculate a stratagem or route of escape but there isn’t even room to unsheathe Almace, let alone grapple with an unknown assailant and survive. Exhaustion clouds her judgement. Fearful of what’s to come, she staggers onward into deeper darkness.

“Turn right here.” Hands held out in front, Coco feels along the wall and passes into a void, yet still unable to see anything. The ambusher leads her further in and then presses down upon her shoulders before ordering curtly, “Sit. Don’t move.”

Sight is useless so heavily doused in darkness and so Coco uses aural cues to determine her surroundings instead. One tiny clue could mean the difference between life and death. Soft footsteps walk away and seemingly stop at a doorway – the rusty grate of hinges followed by a click and scrape of metal as a heavy bolt is slid across. One exit barred. Quelling the panic inside, Coco listens once more as he approaches. At a guess, light leather boots and fitted clothing; no audible clink of armour plating or rustling of fabric. There’s a deliberate carefulness to each step that separates him from a common street thug seeking quick resolution. Measured breathing and precise movements. No, this man is much more dangerous.

She hears the scrape of chair legs as he sits down somewhere close, perhaps opposite in order to observe her. Silent blackness pervades. Still that persistent urge to formulate a plan worries inside of Coco’s head, hampered by the chilling atmosphere and a doleful lack of sleep. Shivers rattle unbidden through her body.

“You’re resilient,” the voice says, a creak of wood betraying his reclining shift. “Most people would have lasted half a bell at most, but not you. Not the honourable paladin chasing the truth. Such a shame you’re so easily led in that endeavour.”

Coco listens to the dull echo of his words and surmises they must be in an enclosed space – a room or walled chamber.

“Let me save you some effort since you’re doubtless trying to work out how to escape. There is a single entrance, which is now locked and barred shut, one small window framed in steel slats, and the only two objects in this room are the chaise you’re sitting on and the wooden chair over here. I’m wearing a titanium skullcap, thus smashing the chair against my head will do nothing and I can see you quite clearly, so waving that sword around in the darkness will do little more than tire you out.” He pauses and resumes with an audible smirk to his voice. “Though I expect sitting out in the coldness of night has already done that, hasn’t it? You’ve had a very busy day, after all.”

“What do you want?” Coco demands, schooling her outer reaction whilst her mind races with that revelation. She hadn’t even considered waiting out in the open would weaken her so, but it had. With idleness leeching warmth from her body torpor had an easy time setting in; slowly squeezing every onze of energy from her limbs and replacing it with lead. The sour mood and consummate obsession with over-thinking had done much the same mentally, leaving Coco defenceless and open to ambush. Complete subjugation with little to no effort on this man’s part. Unbelievable.

“Merely to talk, though you’ll have to trust me on that,” he says. Another creak of wood. She edges away from it slowly.

“Strangely enough, I feel compelled not to. Perhaps it’s being held at knifepoint and kept in darkness that has driven me to that conclusion. You tell me. What would you think in my position?”

The voice laughs. “Much the same but you hardly have a choice now, do you Concordia?”

Her heart lurches painfully. How does he know her name? Rattled, she demands further, “Who are you?”

“A casual observer who very much enjoyed that bracing pursuit across the salt-crusted pavements of Ishgard,” he admits.

Closing her eyes, Coco breathes a quiet sigh of dread. The possibility of leaving this room alive just diminished considerably if that really is her evil shadow; Eorzea’s prolific murderer, should Onayo be correct. Despite the fear roiling around her innards, Coco attempts to remain calm. Inside of her head pain cackles wickedly.

“Why – ”

“Instead of this incessant back and forth inquisition, allow me to speak.” He cuts her off coldly, voice sharp like a razor. But then it softens into neutrality and states cryptically, “You always were so ebullient and endlessly questioning.”

Seated upon that hard wooden chaise, Coco can only listen as her captor explains that he’s been watching her for quite some time now. Describing a vested interest in how more honourable individuals mete out justice, he admits to lingering in shadow and spying on her – alone or around other people. With an almost voyeuristic relish, the man recounts several key events in Coco’s recent history with such detail that he can’t be making them up. Sometimes he’d even hidden in plain sight; at the Quicksand as a drunken fool or a friendly stablehand in South Shroud. And it had been him the night of Lhei’s party after all, careless on that one occasion.

Trembling in the unyielding blackness, Coco is drowning in resurgent emotions, thrown once more into those awful situations she’d tried to forget. Cold fear numbs like a cannonball of ice within her stomach. That dread and uncertainty plaguing countless nights of insomnia snaps a choke-hold on her throat. Once again she’s doubting her own sanity and questioning her mind like others had; their faces lined with concern for her and not what she’d told them. She’s beset by a torrent of anxiety cascading over her like a waterfall, only able to take minute gasps of air before being submerged anew.

“Why do this?” Coco whispers, weighed down by the crushing doubt. There’s silence so complete that she wonders if the man had vanished into nothingness, but then he speaks so diametrically opposed to her hysteria and with perfect calmness.

“Professional curiosity. As a paladin bound by oath and honour, you are restricted to doing what is right and not what is necessary. Admirable as your clemency is, it can’t ever expunge evil from the hearts of mankind and such malice will continue on if left unpunished. All you can do is retaliate and never initiate. It makes you weak, Concordia, and it wastes your natural talent.” Her captor pauses, the interlude chilling. “You squander it on ungrateful people and wilful ignorance.”

Speechless, she can only stare in his general direction and wonder at the truth. To feel that in a bout of fury is one thing, but to lend credence to such a notion in serious deliberation is quite another. Yet, this morning Coco had believed the same. So inured by a career filled with thankless individuals, of risking her life to save theirs or endangering herself for livestock, cargo and other such replaceable entities, has she become too acquiescent? Is it any different to this man’s words? The years of expected obeisance demanding she do as people had come to expect. Her chosen pathway in life – the chivalry of a pure-hearted paladin – distilled down to doing exactly what society demands? The emotional conflict splits Coco in two.

“I remove such people from existence,” the man is saying somewhere in the background, “They don’t deserve the gift of life after having enacted such evil upon others.”

Mutely, Coco sifts through the scattered remnants of her memory for that sunny day in Quarrymill. Searching, scouring. Forcing aside recollections of crushing pain and spurting blood, she finds it. The only stablehand she’d met had been Elezen. A Duskwight man, almost a fulm taller. She inhales slowly, gathering those last vestiges of energy into one concentration.

“The Roegadyn in Bronze Lake I tracked for two whole days. He took on a job to slay coeurl decimating a young woman’s flock of lambs and when she couldn’t pay he brutally raped her. She begged me to end her suffering and then I ended him.”

His voice has that sanctimonious trill again, so strong when Coco feels hollow inside. Had everything been a waste of time?

“A Hyuran woman ejected from a tiny hamlet in the North Shroud for being the local slattern. She returned the next day and poisoned their water supply. Six innocent children and two elders died in pain. I forced her to drink the same poison, neat.”

Had Sylvain Delouix been wrong to teach Coco benevolence? A pale slant of moonlight phases in through the tiny window.

“But one of those worthless individuals I eliminated for your benefit, Concordia.” At those words, Coco looks up in fearful anticipation as the man sighs almost sadly. “I couldn’t stand to see you suffer. He broke you. And for that I destroyed him utterly. You know who, of course. The Maelstrom officer.” A short sardonic laugh. “Moeghaerz was his name. Able Heart. Albeit not so able once I’d divested him of it.”

Hot bile rising into her throat, Coco throws a hand over her mouth, almost disgorging at that admission. There wasn’t a single shred of regret in those words. She feels utterly sick and repulsed, tears brimming in her eyes and indignation burning within. He’d been responsible for all of this : the ordeal of being forced to flee from her normal life, for tainting every good deed she had ever done; following her around in shadows, for making her fearful of the dark. And he’d done this for her benefit. In which warped version of reality could that ever be possible? Who is he, this vengeful spirit?

“I didn’t ask for that,” she breathes shakily. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, of the misery you’ve brought me?”

“Misery?” her captor laughs once more. “Is that what you call co-habiting in Ishgard with your silver-haired Hyur? His name is oddly prophetic, isn’t it? Hope. Not what I expected you to end up with at all.”

Balling her left hand into a fist, Coco growls through gritted teeth, “Don’t dare say his name again.”

Ignoring the veiled threat, the man continues on. “He was very trusting earlier when I handed him the envelope, which wasn’t sent by that detestable Auri woman, incidentally. It was a pleasure to meet such a unique individual. Though, I wonder. What if everyone learned where your angelic little Hope really came from, Concordia? Pulse, was it? Ah. Academia.”

“I said – ”

“Of course, that leads to further rumination. Would he beg for his life? Is he deserving of such a noble paladin? Does he bleed as we Eorzeans do with a dagger thrust into him?”

Flying from the chaise, Coco kicks out blindly with her left foot and impacts with the chair. Anticipating he’ll recover quickly, she uses the momentum and weight of her adamantite armour to barrel forwards, unsheathing Almace in a single fluid movement. In less than a second, she has the man pinned against the wall. Her gauntleted left hand clutches his slender neck and she can feel the heat of his breath, impossibly calm and even. Coco’s own is shuddering with ardent fury, blood hammering like a bass drum. A sliver of moonlight phases through the barred window and highlights what little she can see in stark detail as the razor-sharp tip of Almace threatens an artery pulsing just beneath the man’s dusky hide.

“My, the vivacity of youth. I had quite forgotten.” Still he laughs in that dark tone. “Or is it true love? I never can tell.”

“What did you do to him!” Coco shouts. Adrenaline courses through her, sustaining this fleeting eruption of activity. She feels alive and invincible; fuelled by raw burning hatred and terror in that one instant. Cold, unmitigated, sickening terror.

He snarls, “Nothing at all. But what if I had? There have been so many opportunities, after all.” And then a pinpoint prick of tempered steel against Coco’s left flank, slipped beneath the plate armour. The mistake in blithe offence had been to leave herself vulnerable. She gasps sharply as the man continues on. “What if I had eviscerated him right there? Spattered that otherworldly intelligence you cherish so fondly across cold stone? Would it have turned you, dearheart? After everything you’ve built yourself into, all of that goodness and light, would you abandon it to hunt me down, to avenge your beloved?”

“I would tear your heart out,” she growls into his face. “For Hope and for everyone that you’ve killed, I would ruin you.”

“Somehow I don’t believe that.” Almace advances slightly. “Ah ah, remember we’re at an impasse. Don’t push too hard.”

“You’d be dead before you can kill me.” Even now, Coco feels herself weakening. It’s an immense effort to remain standing as the fervour in her blood thins, that liquid miracle of sustenance reaching the end of its endurance. Fatigue and pain stir now.

“Hardly. My death will be near instant whereas yours would be agonising. A punctured stomach is a horrible way to die, Concordia. Trust me.” He pushes Almace aside with his free hand. “Come now. I believe I taught you better than to issue hollow threats. You do remember that lesson, I expect?”

There is only one Duskwight man that has ever taught Coco anything of value. But it’s impossible. It could never be true.

“I underestimated your devotion to Hope, didn’t I? All that talk about paladins never initiating combat and you proved me wrong.” His voice fades into a distant sound lost within her memories, but softer there. Kinder. “His affection changed you.”

Ice frosts over Coco’s heart. Tendrils of lethargy snake into her lungs and she can’t breathe. Hot tears pool within her eyes.

“You died,” she whispers inertly. “I saw your body torn apart. In the forest that … that morning.”

“Nay. But it was quite fortunate that a Duskwight bandit happened to attack me that night. His sacrifice aided my plan more than I could ever have hoped because, well, I know how curious you are. If I’d simply vanished you’d have spent your life searching for answers, wouldn’t you Concordia? I couldn’t allow that.”

Defeated, Coco takes a step backwards. Almace clatters to the stone floor shortly before its owner herself, those trembling legs having finally given way under duress. Fifteen years of her life acting on a false pretence; a lie that had shaped decisions, steeled her resolve to defend people; that had made Coco accept Ser Dauremont’s death as her first fatal error.

“I blamed myself.” Her voice is like spun sugar, endlessly fragile and brittle. Tears spill down her cheeks.

Dauremont crouches down on the floor and cups her face gently. “You were always strong, Concordia. Stronger than I could be. The damage had already been done to this particular paladin and it affected me deeply. I hoped, rather, I prayed to Halone that your innocent age would give you the determination I had lost. Before we met I’d witnessed too much evil and seen it go unpunished for so very long.”

Sighing, he strokes a dusky thumb along his former student’s cheek. Through the choked sounds of her own sorrow Coco hears his voice almost unrecognisable to the man who’d held her at knifepoint, hearkening from a memory.

“Your grandfather hounded me incessantly. Every day for a whole moon he would come and beg me to tutor you, to teach you what it was to be a paladin. He convinced me that the sins of one generation could be unmade by the next. And so I accepted. I taught you everything I needed to teach you and then I left to follow my own path.”

“Why now?” Coco sobs. Head pounding with agony and aching heart riven in two, she asks, “After all this time, why?”

“I couldn’t let them use you, Concordia. And so I followed you.” At her confused look soaked with tears, Dauremont smiles sadly. “The Ashcrown Consortium isn’t wholly comprised of good people, dearheart. Some of them are soaked in sin. Having slain a particularly detestable individual out in the Sagolii Desert, I discovered he’d been carrying intelligence documents. It didn’t mention you by name, of course, but I knew. I’d heard about the female paladin thrown into gaol after defending a beastman against three Maelstrom officers and further investigation only proved that. Hair like sunset, a relatively short Wildwood woman who’d survived the Calamity as a Twelvesblade, possessed of an exquisite sword and shield.”

“Use me for what?” Coco asks warily and rocks back on her haunches. This is too much, too conveniently arranged.

Dauremont smiles at her and says, “Evil. But don’t worry about that. The details aren’t important now. I strayed from my own path and embraced the life of a dark knight, but I can’t let that happen to you. Not after I promised Sylvain I’d protect his beautiful little sunrose.”

That word, her grandfather’s pet name for her. Upon hearing it Coco knows this really is her long-dead mentor. Because there is no-one else who could know. She’d never told anyone else.

“You’ve blossomed into everything he ever hoped for you. Not even I could taint that, as vehemently as I tried to just then. My only regret is that I may have damaged you irreparably in pushing you so. But I had to make sure. I had to.” Tilting his head to one side, Dauremont falls silent and then says, “I need to leave, Concordia. I hear them coming for me. For you.”

He stands then, quick and sudden. In contradiction, heavily slumped onto cold stone cobbles, Coco feels dead inside. Everything she’d ever believed in, gone. All of her conviction leaking into the boreal Coerthan clime and fluttering away. But there are unresolved issues, even now. She gazes upward with eyes unfocused and whispers, “Is Lhei safe?”

“Your friend was never in danger from me, dearheart. They put her name on that list to rouse you into action. I would never harm you nor anyone close to you.” Dauremont is unbolting the door then, flinging it open and disappearing into the night. His parting words reverberate through crisp air. “Don’t be a paladin for anyone but yourself, Concordia. Stay true.”

In the proceeding solitude, Coco lingers in emotional limbo. Her spirit is decimated, shattered into a million pieces and strewn across the floor. Every single inner strength she believed she’d possessed is fractured now. Protecting the innocent, upholding goodness – tarnished forever. The holder of that paladin’s oath she’d made aligned to darkness; a murderer avenging death with more death, slaughtering criminals based on some skewed sense of morality. How could Coco recognise faith when the man who’d taught her everything had himself fallen so low? Before tonight, Dauremont had stayed dead.

Onayo arrives at some later point, gripping the broken paladin by her shoulders and shaking her violently. Words filter through. Demands, angry questions, threats of violence – all of them insignificant now. In the face of so many transposed realities with her world turned upside down, how can Coco ever trust anyone again?


	22. « Alpha Quadrant, Azys Lla – Abalathia’s Spine, Eorzea │ day forty five »

Hope Estheim is a man who’d witnessed his own world change dramatically in the space of several centuries. He’d become a l'Cie – a magic-imbued servant of sentient machines straight out of Pulsian horror stories – at an early age, indelibly changing his life forever.

Some time later, after one averted apocalypse and a conscience fractured with guilt, he’d studied tirelessly to become a scientist; a hard-working physicist dedicated to people whose lives he’d damaged as a l'Cie. Science eventually carried Hope hundreds of years into the future, ageing no more than he would after a night’s sleep, to once again fight more cataclysmic doom. Fate had been one long learning experience filled with tribulation and self-discovery.

But at this very moment, standing on the boarding ramp of an airship thousands of feet above ground level in another world, Hope is reduced to mute fascination. As if the unnatural atmosphere of orange interspersed with muddy green swathes of cloud hadn’t been enough, he’d turned around and recoiled, mouth dropping open in surprise. Of all Eorzea’s breathtaking splendours this is surely the most magnificent and Cid had woefully undersold it.

The nearest structure is a dome-like hub constructed out of a solid brassy material, yet beyond that is an impossible landscape of terraced rock suspended in mid-air. Sculpted into several islets, each one supports a varying array of buildings from needle-shaped broadcasting towers to globular silos Hope can only guess the purpose of. A hive of activity in itself, the immediate area contains numerous landing platforms and stacks of oblong blocks exposed to the elements, thronged on all sides by more mundane wooden crates presumably brought up from Ishgard. To a scientist like Hope this place is a magnificent opportunity; a floating research archipelago concealed within in Eorzea’s skies.

“Excuse me. Master Estheim?” The sudden voice causes him to turn around and glimpse one of Cid’s engineers peering over the top of a banded crate. A Roegadyn man by name of Steel Edge if he remembers correctly. “Sir? This box is rather heavy. I’d be grateful if you could disembark before I drop it and doom us both to a very long fall.”

“My apologies.” With a rueful smile, Hope jogs down onto the landing platform and moves aside. There are people milling around everywhere, but he’d like to explore a little before heading to greet any of them. Slow and deliberate, Hope takes a deep draught of air and tastes that unmistakable flavour of ionised atmosphere – artificially filtered and purified. Not quite the pristine clarity of Academia or Eorzea’s wooded regions, but it does evoke memories of Cocoon. That raises several pertinent questions. Could Allagan technology have made levitating the new Cocoon – Bhunivelze – easier? Would it have been more efficient than graviton cores and the complexity of electrodynamic matrices?

Regardless, Hope smiles and eagerly embraces the opportunity he’d been given. Not every physicist has the chance to study another world’s scientific achievements, after all. Perhaps he’d even be able to return home and compare them one day. Gazing out over the abyss Hope wonders what Coco would think about living in Academia with him; whether she’d be happier, how much more heartening her curiosity would be surrounded by his world’s technology. And yet that’s capricious thinking until he actually finds a way to return. When – or if – he’s able, then perhaps he’ll ask Coco to decide their future.

“More of that deep and intense thinking, lad?” Cid’s sudden voice is upbeat at Hope’s side. He rests both forearms upon the platform’s railing and leans forward, peering down into green swirling mists clinging to the underside of Azys Lla.

“Of course.” Hope greets the older man with a smile. “A scientist’s work is never done, as you well know.”

“Don’t I just. Doesn’t look like you’re thinking about science though. That usually involves frowning and the unconscious stroking of one’s chin, not staring off into space with a glassy-eyed gawk.”

“Astute as ever, Master Garlond.” At Cid’s questioning expression, Hope states cryptically, “More complicated matters.”

The white-haired engineer grins. “Lad, I know of only one thing more complicated than science and that’s women. The lady adventurer who wrote to me on your behalf, I presume? Just tell her how you feel.” There’s a pause in conversation as the mood drops slightly. Apparently sensing it, Cid changes the tone. “Anyway, since we have extremely limited time up here let’s get to work. What do you think of the Allagan Empire’s floating islands so far?”

Hope turns around and leans back against the railing, staring up at the massive super-structure ahead. Four sets of gigantic concentric rings rotate alternately upon an invisible axis, composed of green bands of light and a glowing cyan material held together with that dark metal so abundant in Allagan design. Each one must be at least five hundred feet across. Extending out into the rings is the platform they’re currently standing on, long and narrow; presumably a dock for starships or other large craft that would visit on a regular basis.

“Astonishing, isn’t it,” Hope breathes with unmitigated awe. That science could produce such a thing. “But where does all of this power come from? An electromagnet of that size must produce an incredible draw.”

“You’re sure that’s what it is?” Cid asks curiously, watching for his reaction. “Even at a cursory glance?”

“More an educated guess,” Hope notes with a shrug. “Of the other systems I know that could support free-rotating structures like that, neither of them produce any sound. Antimatter principals and quantum harmonics don’t utilise mechanical parts so they operate in silence, but that device is very loud. It’s unmistakably the hum of an electromagnet amplified to massive proportions, with the variance in wavelength caused by interaction between the rings and outer structure itself. What I’m not certain about is why they rotate at all, but perhaps to keep the electromagnetic field in a state of constant flux.” He glances across, suddenly aware of the other man’s reticence and feels self-conscious. “Or I could be completely wrong.”

“No, no. Just quietly basking in your superior knowledge, Master Estheim,” Cid chuckles with obvious mirth.

Hope sighs dejectedly. He hadn’t meant to come across as condescending at all, but he’s secretly missed this intellectual banter with another like-minded individual. As much as he cherishes conversing with Coco, she isn’t a woman of science despite her sharp Eorzean mind and keen acumen. Yet that beautiful paladin does have other, more obvious charms. Charms he’d spent all night admiring as they lay together on her bed four nights ago. A sudden warmth blossoms within.

“It’s called Helix,” the older man is saying as Hope extricates his mind away from Coco’s feminine wiles and back onto the surrounding environ. “One of the guidance nodes we found in a storage facility said that not all of the rings are present, so we imagine there must have been many more, extending out into the air beyond Helix itself. Could be it was originally large enough to dock a starship like the one we found your beloved dreadnought in.”

“But still Master Garlond, how is it all powered?” Using formal terms to address each other had become a sort of joke, despite Hope’s vehement dislike of official titles. He barely accepts being referred to as Director, even among Academy staff.

“Would you believe, three super-charged primals.” Cid puts an arm around Hope’s shoulders and turns them both around. He points first to a building just beyond Helix’s hub and then at a part of Azys Lla Hope hadn’t even noticed yet : a haunting silhouette of thorny black against the unnatural sky. “The only reason this place floats is because of them, trapped in a prison that continually extracts aether and converts it into usable fuel.”

“How long has Azys Lla been up here?” Hope asks. When he receives the answer in approximation, he stares at Cid in open-mouthed shock. “That’s not sustainable, surely! There is no other repository of power? Solar energy, ionisation of the atmosphere, harnessing thunderstorms. Nothing?”

“Ah. Now you grasp the dilemma, lad. Hydaelyn herself is being drained of aether and yet, should we spring these primals, what the Scions call the Warring Triad, from their prison, Azys Lla will fall from the sky. Directly below are the Abalathian Mountains but I dread to think what could happen should all of this collapse. A hundred million tonze of falling debris.”

“No,” Hope murmurs, feeling that terror coil anew inside of him. It’s like history repeating itself; Cocoon hanging on a thread of time, brimming on the edge of disaster as he races to avert that apocalypse. There is no metashield prototype here; no safety net of energy to catch a plummeting continent in lush and technologically-hampered Eorzea. That habitual nightmare of Cocoon’s fall is twisted, transposed in his mind – destroying Coco’s world instead of his, nullifying her existence. And Hope’s life too, given that unmitigated disaster. He takes a deep breath and steadies himself externally. Inside, he’s quaking with trepidation. “No. You absolutely do not want Azys Lla to fall. It will decimate the lower world.”

The passage of time having calmed his heart around an hour later, Hope is sitting on an Allagan crate at the Helix terminal with glazed-over vision. Text floating unaided on projected screens before him blurs into an unreadable mass as his eyes unfocus. There’s a lapse in composure where he wonders what evil thing he’d ever done to earn this penance spread across two universes; tasked with saving millions of lives in dual races against time. But then he recovers, ashamed by his own petulance. It’s not the fault of Eorzea’s people that he’s here; not even their fault that this sky laboratory exists. Had one particular Eorzean not saved him from certain death, Hope wouldn’t be here to assist in any capacity.

Desperate for a solution, it’s only natural Cid would turn to him; to ask in that subtle way for Hope’s otherworldly help. But he’s just one solitary man. What can he do where he’d had hundreds of research scientists back home in Academia? Burdened so, Hope sighs as he changes this exhausted tomestone out for another. Bio-chemistry data about a strain of wheat won’t send him home or avert an apocalypse. Fate has charged him with that destiny several times over.

The tomestones themselves, Cid had explained, had been removed from installations throughout the realm and collected by the engineer since he’d travelled to Eorzea. Compact data cartridges full of information, the flat black oblongs with deep grooves are impossible to sort without manually going through each of them. This is the only terminal known to be accessible and thus the only place to laboriously dredge through a crate full of tomestones searching for a single clue that may or may not lie within; one piece of Hope’s puzzle in returning home.

Cid theorised that starships needed telemetry data and where better to look for that than a tomestone retrieved from one of those enigmatic vessels themselves? With so many demanding issues snatching up Master Garlond’s time, he hadn’t had chance to look himself and, before Hope arrived, no reason to suspect other worlds had existed.

Languishing in thoughts of cataclysm, Hope operates in an automated sequence of catalogue work; briefly scanning the contents of a tomestone, writing shorthand descriptions on a tag then threading it through carbon fibre wire and securing it to the cartridge, dropping the result into another crate marked “Output”. He should feel grateful. Extremely few physicists are gifted with something miraculous like the Echo. Its awarded xenoglossy enables Hope to communicate in all forms of Eorzean language. Drifting in its suggestible lull, his mind wanders back to Coco and the note he’d left at her bedside.

They haven’t spoken since that unforgettable night where they’d been entwined atop her bed; when she’d sought to entice him before Hope’s apathy had sent Coco into a deep slumber. Whenever he’d gone to reconnect with her since, she’s been exactly that way – soundly asleep – as if to outline the fact that he can only disappoint her. Even now, Hope regrets the tone of the letter penned in Eorzean hand, because his own negativity had seeped through in words both said and omitted.

Afterwards Hope had gone into her room once more. Unable to resist the draw of Coco sleeping so close by, he’d lain down beside her and trailed fingertips along a jawline, slid himself around her waist with utmost care. He’d felt the warmth of Coco’s exhalation against his neck and dared himself to steal something more from her : a nuzzle ending in a delicate kiss.

Hope had done it. And whilst it continually subjects him to endless guilt, he also feels like the world’s happiest thief. That a woman could ensnare him so completely is something he’d never anticipated. In the present, staring at a requisition list of mineral ores, Hope’s mind wanders to the past; to his l'Cie days where Lightning, Fang and Vanille had tempered him into a stronger individual. Even before that, drawing from his mother Nora’s strength and after, inspired by Serah’s sacrifice. All of them he admires greatly, but Coco is different. With a culpable smile, Hope surmises that’s because he’s in love with that inscrutable paladin with flowing auburn locks. She’s simultaneously courageous and fearful, strong and yet vulnerable.

Jolted back into focus by the sounds of combat, Hope peers cautiously over a stack of boxes to see yet another snapper-rook assaulting their camp. Cid’s contingent of adventurer guard detail fend it off eventually but tension simmers in the air. Reminded by the danger so prevalent in Azys Lla, he returns to work with renewed determination but allows Coco’s influence to linger within; warm and fragrant like a summer’s day.

More frivolous tomestones and another half hour later little has changed. His attention drawn by the sound of an aircraft approaching, Hope stands and stretches before wandering over to Cid. Scattered pieces of droid circuitry are everywhere.

“Found anything useful?” the chief engineer asks, tinkering with the insides of a deactivated rook. Stained sunlight filters obtusely through purple glass of the lower segment, reminding Hope of a solar panel. Perhaps that’s exactly what it is and Cid is exploring that supposition, trying to piece everything back together again.

“In a general sense, many wonderful and useful things. Pertaining to our goal, not a single clue I’m afraid.”

“That’s a damn shame, but there will be other days. The airship out there is coming to collect us all since we’ve received word of a violent electrical storm rolling in off the east.” Cid tentatively connects two wires and sparks fly, causing him to curse out loud as he fans black smoke away. “You have a visitor too I’ve been graciously informed.”

Heart clenching, Hope wonders if it’ll be Coco herself come to meet him. _You are ironically hopeless_ , he reminds himself with amusement before asking Cid in a neutral voice, “And who would that be?”

“Beats me lad. Go wait over by the landing deck if you want, though stay out of Steel’s way. He just got back from reconnoitre with a couple of adventuring buddies and is none too pleased at me telling him he’ll have to haul cargo again.”

Several minutes later and there’s no sign of an auburn Elezen come to raise Hope’s spirits, but there is a rather smaller white-haired one dressed in dark blue. Initially heading towards the dome at Helix after greeting Cid with a wave, he then turns around halfway, a curious expression gracing his young face. Is this the visitor that had travelled to meet Hope?

“Ah! Based on Cid’s description, would I be correct in assuming you’re the eminent Master Estheim?”

Feeling a tug of irritation, Hope reins it in and smiles cordially, offering a hand in greeting. “Please, just call me Hope.”

“Certainly. I’m honoured to meet your acquaintance, Hope. My name is Alphinaud Leveilleur and I come at the behest of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.” The Elezen shakes the proffered hand and then bows, bending at the waist. “I’d like very much to speak with you, if there’s time.”

“Of course. Though I’m unsure as to the reasons why I warrant such interest. Shall we head into camp?”

“I was rather hoping we could speak out here actually. There’s a much lower chance of anyone overhearing, given that I’ve heard you’re a singularly unique arrival to our fair realm of Eorzea.” Alphinaud’s expression remains professional throughout, implying a wisdom well beyond his years. Both bright blue eyes regard the scientist with open courtesy.

 _Diplomatic and well-spoken_ , Hope muses and shifts into social etiquette mode, schooling his countenance. _His accent is similar to Coco’s though, so it appears he’s Sharlayan too. And how in Etro’s name does he know I’m not Eorzean?_ Leaning back casually on the guardrail, he nods and decides to play this interaction close to his chest. For now.

Given permission, Alphinaud then talks at length about his organisation – the Scions – and gives a brief history of how they had been formed before the Calamity of seven years ago. Through the many conversational twists and turns, Hope stacks even more questions onto the lofty pile he seeks resolution to and merely listens politely.

A secret society of Echo users and other gifted individuals seeking to save Eorzea from threats the public aren’t aware of? He isn’t sure that could sound any more contentious than it already does. Eventually Alphinaud moves onto the subject of Hope himself; of what’s known about his origins and the incontrovertible truth of him also possessing the Echo’s blessing.

Piecing together the clues, Hope gathers Alphinaud must have learned everything from Cid. Coco would never endanger him in such a way without his express consent. He offers a disarming smile and states, “Commendable though your research is, there’s quite a lot missing. If indeed everything you say is true, then how did I end up here in Eorzea? How certain are you?”

Alphinaud smiles in much the same way, adding a slightly raised eyebrow to their tactful sparring match. “Oh, fairly certain. As to the former question, I’m hoping that you’ll trust my intentions are only good by offering a familiar name into the mix. A certain Mistress Delouix, originator of the letter Cid received and proponent of our conversation here today.”

“How is she involved?” Hope glances away, not trusting himself to remain neutral when her name is invoked.

“I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me. And you’re wise not to trust immediately, Hope. Echo users must conceal their gift to all but the most well-intentioned. There are some ungentle forces who would cause you harm should they find out you possess it. But the Scions can offer you protection and anonymity if you desire that. Coco is known to us in the briefest sense in that we recognise she also has the Echo, but beyond that we’re uncertain of your connection with her.”

Allowing himself to relax ever so slightly Hope tilts his gaze upwards to Helix, guarding that recent emotion jealously. _Connection is an understatement and you know that. No-one else does_ , he intones silently. _So the Scions really have no idea how close you are to Concordia. That, or Alphinaud is playing it smart. Would they use her as a bargaining chip if they did know? But that first demands the answer of why they’d resort to that in the first place._ Feigning far more interest in the ever-rotating rings than he actually retains, Hope asks, “So how can I help you, Alphinaud? Why travel so far to meet with me?”

Transferring his gaze back to the Elezen, Hope watches the young man’s mouth curl up into a smile. “One could garner much from your avoidance away from the subject of Mistress Delouix should he wish to, Hope. But that’s not my intention. I merely bring you an offer of alliance, an invitation to join the Scions. Your particular knowledge on science and technology is of priceless value to us, and be rest assured we would only use it to help the people of Eorzea. Even then, only with your express and continuing permission.”

Having anticipated that offer early on, Hope is satisfied that Coco is safe now unless he categorically involves her. Despite that fleeting caution, he finds himself unconsciously drawn to the possibility of helping Eorzea. Perhaps he’s stacking too many responsibilities onto his own shoulders, but he won’t ever let people suffer if there’s a chance he can avert that. Still, this wordplay has been fun. Alphinaud is indeed a worthy opponent. Hope breathes an affected sigh and offers a light laugh.

“That is a commitment I’m not sure I can make with inclement weather looming. If I should need some time to decide?”

Alphinaud accepts the parry and nods, graciously admitting defeat. “Then you shall have as much as you need, Hope. I’ll be in Ishgard for the foreseeable future. You can reach me at Fortemps Manor in The Pillars or through Cid, should I be afield somewhere.” He bows and relaxes too, leaning back against the railing beside Hope. “But indulge my altruism, if you may. You’re hardly the first individual to arrive in Eorzea from another world and will doubtless be the last. There are several the Scions have helped to settle into normal lives, and whom we continue to protect covertly. We can provide whatever we are able to facilitate your welcome transition into our realm.”

That particular comment intrigues Hope. He wonders, thinking of Concordia in that moment. Perhaps he can succeed with the Scions’ extended reach. “Ah. Is that so? I guess that would depend on what I’d need, wouldn’t it?”

“Within reason,” Alphinaud smiles lightly. “Just don’t ask us to revive the Allagan Empire. I shouldn’t want that at all.”


	23. « Manor de Bissette-Rois – The Holy See of Ishgard, Eorzea │ day forty six »

Soaked thoroughly in a haze of melancholy, one Wildwood Elezen stares ahead at a fixed point upon the wall and exhales. Determined to control one small aspect of herself, she resists the countering reflex until it becomes uncomfortable and inhales. Breath held back in such fashion, it makes Coco aware of how slow her heartbeat really is, echoed throughout her body in a myriad divergence of sensations. It’s solidly painful within her migraine and swimming heat in that injured left shoulder; a neatly captured flutter inside balled-up hands and reassuringly forceful at the intersection where crossed-over limbs meet.

Her mind is an entirely different matter. Clouded with a negative mien, it can only relive those painful memories carved out of recent events and steadfastly demand answers Coco simply doesn’t possess. The detrimental veneer of her mood dulls Eorzea’s light down to a misty fog of colour and muted contrast. Grey stone mingles with green fabric and the earthy hue of wooden furniture in her distorted vision. She sighs, for all intents and purposes feeling like a snow maiden abandoned to a hot summer’s day – abyssal cold within and melting on the periphery. Fire acting upon ice and calamity eroding defiance, reducing her to a brittle shell struggling to cope.

There had been too much to reconcile with no time to grieve. Her life had never been so chaotic before. Where once Coco would have compressed those feelings down and stored them within, she finds they’ve outgrown her ability to do so now. If she is unable to stonewall her own emotions, how can she protect the innocent as a pure-hearted paladin? Would it be a lie to proclaim herself a sworn defender of the realm? Would that it could be so easily answered.

A muffle of sound ekes through the miasma. Once and again it calls, eventually accompanied by a pressure resting atop her left arm. Coco’s vision refocuses and she turns to see Lord Anselfort gazing at her with a concerned expression. His leaden eyes beseech an explanation even before he speaks.

“Are you well, my dear?” he asks from under a barely perceptible frown. Coco can’t read the meaning with any clarity. Perhaps he’s irritated at her lapse of attention. Lead darkens to charcoal, crinkle lines crowding around the narrowed eyes set into Anselfort’s soft-angled face. “You look pallid. Should I send for a chirurgeon at once?”

Coco glances around the room before replying. That strange man is still sitting there with his predatory gaze fixed on her like a hawk eyeing a small mouse. She shoves down the compulsion to shiver and replies softly, “No, my lord. I was merely distracted for a moment. Please continue.”

“Well, I had been remarking upon Lord Lavergne’s boon offered in small recompense for your chivalry. He had – ” Anselfort stops mid-sentence at the timely cough of a Duskwight manservant standing at the salon’s door. Their lord is needed right away to sign an important document, the willowy man states. Sighing with a tired exhalation, the old noble rises to his feet unsteadily, hands braced atop creaking knees for several seconds. He’d been old when Coco first met him and another decade had done little to improve that fact.

“Honestly Binou. The day you learn not to interrupt me when I have guests, I shall already be rotting in my grave. Go ahead, out with you.” Anselfort grimaces and pleads, “Excuse me. I shan’t be long.”

Returning to her obstinate stare at the wall, Coco breathes a concealed sigh of unease and tries to ignore the father of poor murdered Cicely, still leering with abandon. It had taken roughly ten minutes of being in the same room as that man to understand why Cicely had sought comfort in the arms of a Hyuran commoner.

But even worse is the sickening suspicion lurking in Coco’s mind that he’d been ultimately responsible for his daughter’s death. No grieving father should laugh like that nor repeatedly steer the conversation onto his latest wife and their newborn son. Controlling inheritance matters is second nature to nobles, after all. What is yet another murder in cold-blood, sanctioned by a gullible paladin too blinded by justice to realise? Just another way to highlight Coco’s shortcomings.

There’s a quietness punctuated by the crackle of kindling wood and diminished conversation from outside. She breathes in this time, holding air in those lungs until they burn. Simply feeling anything is a remarkable feat right now.

“Yes. Do give especial thought to the reward I can grant you, adventurer.” Lord Lavergne practically purrs, his voice dripping with dark pleasure. “Money is no object, of course. But there are other, more valuable assets I can confer. Status, perhaps? Better accommodation than that rat’s nest our dear Lord Anselfort has given you, certainly.” He pauses for apparent effect. “Or a night in my noble bed. You’re a fair enough maiden, despite your lowly station in life.”

Coco’s innards churn at that offer. Maybe he’s used treating women like cattle but Lord Lavergne will find no such purchase with this one. Loathe to even reply she states flatly, “Thank you, but no.”

“Are you quite sure?” He rises from the chaise opposite and saunters over, stopping around a yalm away. “Ah, but mayhap you prefer something more basal like my dearly departed Cicely did. Hyuran men, is it? I could do so much more for you than one of those wretched creatures.”

Again with that favourite barb of Elezen superiority. Even Dauremont had resorted to such petty insults in order to stoke her rage. Coco stands to meet Lord Lavergne, irritation broiling within. She doesn’t want to cope with this right now given her black mood and emotional instability. Forcing herself to stare coldly at the lecherous noble, she straightens up to full height.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my whole life,” Coco announces honestly. “And quite frankly I don’t appreciate your overt tone. You may not be accustomed to dealing with adventurers, but rest assured I’m not intimidated by you.”

Lord Lavergne laughs darkly. “I believe a common wench like yourself should be fortunate I’d even think about bedding you.”

Adrenaline thrumming within she snaps, “And I’m beginning to believe Cicely had a lucky escape.” Like a serpent about to strike the noble raises his hand and draws it back as Coco cautions him against violence. “Dare touch me and I shall leave you to explain to our dear Lord Anselfort why there is blood all over his expensive cashmere rug. Good day to you, my lord.”

And then Coco pivots on one foot, heading out of the salon’s cloying atmosphere at a rapid pace. There’s the lurking realisation that she shouldn’t have reacted so angrily, but what can one pervert do to damage her more than everyone else had? Not much, she surmises. Upsetting one pathetic aristocrat is hardly going to make this paladin’s existence more painful. As Coco is striding towards the cloakroom, Lord Anselfort emerges out of a doorway and catches her attention.

“You’re leaving already, my dear?” he asks, gracing her with a slight frown.

Stopping short next to him, she replies, “Yes. I’m required elsewhere unfortunately.” She regards his kind face and wills him not to request an explanation. Despite everything, Coco doesn’t want to lie to her patron after the lengths he’d gone to assist both herself and Hope. Offering a vague enough reason will have to suffice.

“Of course, of course. Adventuring business, I assume.” He smiles and she returns the gesture with hidden relief. “But there is something I wished to ask of you. Now, this is merely a favour and the answer in no way affects your welcome at the summer house. That is available for as long as you both have need of it. No, this is more conducive to your fighting talents.”

Coco looses a sigh before she can stop it escaping. No doubt this is yet another demand on her time and fragmented sanity, designed in some way to benefit someone’s social standing. There had been so many of those thrown at her feet lately : the slaying of beasts, requisition of ridiculously rare materials like bandersnatch hide and dragon tooth or appearing at a dinner party like she had that memorable evening a whole fourteen days ago, all in return for some promised favour. So far Coco had successfully avoided them all, electing to choose jobs that would take her far from Ishgard instead. Though she has to admit, it’s far longer than she’d expected the luck to last.

Anselfort beams, apparently misjudging her reaction for something else. “Come now. It’s well within your ability. The Temple Knights are holding a combat tournament very soon and I hadn’t a champion to put forward, but it occurred to me I’ve had one in my midst for quite some time. So, I’d like you to represent the house of de Bissette-Rois. What say you, my dear?”

Almost immediately Coco opens her mouth to refuse, but then pauses as a peculiar thought creeps into her mind. Under the crushing weight of her depression she had immersed herself in physical exercise, believing that it would occupy those dark thoughts for at least part of each day. Having being wrong in that assertion, Coco had been ready to give up. But what if opportunity lay within this tournament? Could she finally put that question of personal capability to rest?

After all, if a paladin cannot fight to defend herself, she can’t possibly protect other people. What good are razor-sharp Almace and the reliable phalanx of Ancile in that situation? Merely the lavish trinkets of an undeserving pretender.

Losing her ability to fight would be the measure of it. Only then Coco would have her answer. Forcefully retired such from the life of a paladin would render her nothing but a lacklustre Eorzean woman. _Then I’d have even less to offer Hope than I do now. Perhaps that’s why he spends so much time away lately_ , she considers and feels a dull ache of pain within. Claws of cold steel digging into her heart, Coco summons the courage to speak. She will do this not for Lord Anselfort, but instead levelling it as the final test of efficacy; for her own sanity and the affections of the man she loves so profoundly.

“When is it to be held?” she inquires, voice sounding frail and hollow. Her patron doesn’t seem to notice.

“Four days from now. You shall?” Lord Anselfort asks. Coco nods once. “Splendid! I shall make arrangements in your stead.”

Coco’s ensuing departure from the manor happens within a clouded haze of subconscious activity. All she can think about is Hope; hair like the glisten of hardsilver ingots beneath a warming sun, his fingers upon her skin, soft and unendingly delicate because he’s a scientist – an enigma of intelligence and unparalleled altruism. That voice so full of careful nuance. Beautiful seafoam eyes staring into her like he really could feel something similar to love, and yet Coco won’t dare let herself believe that. It’s one supposition too far that an Eorzean woman deserves a man of his stature. After everything she’d learned of his former life in Academia, how could she claim to?

And yet Coco yearns to be in Hope’s presence. No more stolen vigils of watching him sleep or the anticipation of reading his handwriting, left on little notes pinned to a board in the kitchen. That had been their entire correspondence ever since that night she’d tried to seduce him. Had it been so catastrophically wrong, wishing Hope would exorcise any doubt in the soul-baring act of making love to her? Apparently so. It’s called that for a reason, after all.

Trudging through the snowy streets of an Ishgard in mid-afternoon cloud cover, she sighs exhaustedly. All of this thinking is tiresome work. When she eventually looks up from the ground, Coco finds herself a single salt-crusted path away from Skysteel Manufactory itself – almost as if cognition had brought her here to meet him. Like prophesied fate, only realistic.

She wanders into the main building itself glad to get out of the cold and casts a searching gaze across the workshop floor. None of the machines are active today and so the area is shrouded with an unnatural pall of quiet. Wandering through the aisles of stilled machinery, Coco takes in the various curios hung upon walls and randomly strewn across shelves.

A branch of corrupted crystal gleams from within a sealed glass cylinder and tattered remnants of an old flag are folded within a burnished steel picture frame. There’s a string of mechanical mammet hearts threaded artfully onto coiled iron cable, canisters of industrial lubricant, buckets half-filled with iridescent black oil or a thin blue liquid. The evocative drawing of a Miqo'te woman adorns the wall above a workbench covered with tools.

This place is undoubtedly the domain of men, economical and strictly business without the softening influence of a woman. Coco walks towards the rear offices, wondering where Hope fits into all of this; his speciality being science and not cold, hard mechanics. Glancing at the uneaten pile of sandwiches upon a plate by the double doors, she rings a wall-mounted bell to draw whomever they belong to out into the open. Who else could it possibly be than charismatic engineer Romillioux Verne himself. He feigns open-mouthed shock and staggers back dramatically with a hand on his chest.

“We have to stop meeting like this, beautiful. People will start to talk,” he says with a broad grin. One edge of Coco’s mouth turns upward regardless of the despondence she feels lurking gloomily within. Romillioux picks up a sandwich and bites into it, subsequently wiping crumbs from his face. “Sorry. Haven’t eaten all day. What can I do for you this time?”

Glancing over his shoulder through the dusty glass separator, Coco asks tentatively, “Is Hope Estheim here right now?”

“Just me I’m afraid, love. Master Garlond and everyone else is up in Azy– er, they’re afield on some project or other.”

Azys Lla. The fabled land of Allagan technology that Hope had alluded to in his handwritten notes to her. No wonder he’s distracted if Cid’s engineering team has spent time up there. She can only imagine her silver-haired scientist, enraptured and surrounded by technology much closer to his own. The thought unconsciously warms her iced-over heart.

“Anyway, you didn’t hear that from me. Can I get you anything? You look nithered fresh outta that brittle cold,” he remarks. Coco deliberates upon that for several seconds. Her natural reaction would be to isolate herself once again, especially in the grip of consummate melancholy, but perhaps it would do her some good to stay and talk. She could do her own research into Hope and spend a little time in the presence of someone actually happy to see her; free from those endless noble demands or the ever-shrewd eyes of a lingering shadow. Whichever one it happened to be.

“Coffee?” she asks hopefully. Romillioux shakes his head. They do have Ishgardian tea, however. Or brandy. Hot mulled wine. Stout locally-brewed ale. Alarmed at the prospect of so much alcohol around heavy machinery, Coco opts for the former – sweet leaf tea. That night out with Hope had been the only one in recent memory she’d partaken in wine at all, allowing her normal abstinence to falter for such an enjoyable occasion. In hindsight, soberness had been a prudent lifestyle choice.

A short while after being left alone in the workshop, Coco watches Romillioux return carrying two chipped mugs. “Milady,” he intones, handing one over. They sit beside each other on a long metal desk pushed against the wall.

“How is Hope doing here at Skysteel?” Coco asks, taking a sip of tea. It’s a little too sugary but bracing and hot.

“He ain’t told you?” Romillioux gawks, withdrawing hurriedly from his own mug. She offers an explanation of varying work schedules, which is partly true. Her insomnia and scattered sleep patterns certainly hadn’t helped any more than the bouts of determined exercise and field trips. “That lad, he’s a little miracle worker. Introduced three new alloys to the forge we’ve never heard of this far from ol’ Sharlayan. Helped design a new water purification system working off ice and snow, then proposed a kind of indoor garden to help feed the starving masses in the Brume. I have my doubts, but he’s convinced it’ll work like.”

Coco’s heart aches for Hope in that moment. She’d missed all of this, his wonderment and joy. It had been everything she’d ever hoped for him – to find a place in Eorzea where he could help people as he’s used to doing. But it’s a temporary inhibitor to his return journey back to Academia, especially if he has cutting-edge Allagan technology at his disposal now.

“He talks about you a lot,” Romillioux is saying, carefully sipping mouthfuls of tea, “Coco this, Coco that. Makes me wonder if there ain’t something going on you should tell me about, beautiful!”

And then the warmth is gone. She feels ice solidifying in the pit of her stomach as she stands, placing the mug down too quickly and spilling hot tea everywhere. “I should leave. Thank you for the drink.”

“Hey now,” Romillioux says, touching Coco’s arm. She flinches away from him roughly, suddenly reminded of how much she despises physical contact that isn’t administered by Hope or the very closest of friends. “Please don’t go. I’m really sorry.” The sincerity in his voice makes her look at him, tears brimming wetly in her eyes. “I hit a raw nerve there, love?” he asks quietly. Not trusting her voice to conceal emotions, Coco merely nods.

“You miss him?” he asks. Another nod, slower this time. “If it makes you feel any better, it seems the feeling’s mutual. Sometimes I’ll catch him with this far-off look in his eyes and then it’s gone, back to working on whatever he’d been doing.”

Busying herself with the act of cleaning up spilled tea with an oily rag, Coco senses that all-consuming darkness looming once more. She manages to wipe away an escaped tear before Romillioux notices but feels that snaking tendril of isolation wrapping around her innards again.

 _You need to leave_ , an inner voice whispers. It’s the lull of a tormented mind aching for the restitution of sleep. _Maybe you can wake up in time and be there to cook dinner as Hope arrives home. Wouldn’t that make you happy for once?_ And then the other, unfathomably cruel version redresses the balance. _But you’ll probably just wake up after midnight like you normally do_. Conflicted, Coco assures the Elezen man she’s fine and leaves, no longer wishing to outstay her welcome.

Of all the things she expects to see standing at the front door of Cantillon House a while later, Onayo isn’t one of them. Those bright pink irises stare unflinchingly through sheets of delicate falling snow, spoiling their quiet beauty. Even at this distance, the Auri woman looks royally furious. Her expression is akin to one would make chewing a wasp and the set of that narrow mouth is lined perfectly flat. _Great_ , Coco groans within. _This is all I need right now. As if I don’t feel bad enough._

“Where have you been all day?” Onayo snaps coldly. “Cavorting with criminals who should be locked up?”

Reaching inside her bag for house keys, Coco walks straight past and grits her teeth. Petulance is most unbecoming in a shadow of questionable intention. Ser Dauremont had brought that particular quandary to light. Having had her constitution thoroughly obliterated by her former mentor and those outlandish claims, Coco is no longer content to trust anyone so openly. And that’s not even taking into account Dauremont’s own hypocrisy in returning from the dead. Lies stacked upon more lies. It’s ironic, but the only person who hadn’t lied so far is Hope himself – a denizen of another world.

Quashing the appealing quip about how Onayo doesn’t already know her whereabouts since she’s so used to following her around, Coco merely replies, “Out.”

“That’s how you want to play this, seriously? That’s how you repay the Consortium for guarding your life? And people wonder how Elezen earned that reputation for being prissy little bitches.”

This time, Coco turns to Onayo and deadpans. “Lest you forget, dear old Nivie is one of those. Careful.” The look on the Auri woman’s face is pure evil. Some small segment of consciousness reminds Coco not to make enemies out of everyone if she can help it, and so she reluctantly backs down with a long sigh. It’s not only her life at stake now. Ser Dauremont’s experimental threat against Hope had awoken that realisation with abject horror. “I’m very tired, Onayo. I haven’t been sleeping well at all lately so I apologise for my shortness. What can I do for you?”

Magenta eyes glare but that scowl lessens ever so slightly. “Apology accepted. I thought you’d like to know that we’ve been in contact with your Miqo'te friend and he’s written a letter. ”

Coco’s heart leaps. _Pan!_ Her expression must change to match because Onayo is smirking as she reaches into a pouch at her side and withdraws an envelope, pressing it roughly against Coco’s chest. Standing indoors a while later, the depression returns with an inky black dogmatism. As she strokes bare fingers along the waxen seal, Coco wonders.

Why would Pan write to her at this exact time? It seems awfully coincidental; an outreach just after Coco had become disillusioned with the Consortium, who supposedly don’t have her best interests at heart. Now they come bearing gifts – gifts they surely know she is desperate to receive. And her friend would never be so stupid as to write now; not when the Maelstrom could intercept it. They’d have Elysian under surveillance, no doubt. No. This is all wrong. She’s not going to be fooled so easily. The lucidity of thought is almost terrifying given this horrible negative shroud over everything. But no.

Walking through the kitchen, Coco tears the sealed envelope into four neat pieces and throws them in with last night’s popoto peelings. She is going to do one positive thing today and that is cook a hearty dinner for Hope after all – whether or not she’ll be awake to see his reaction. Just knowing he’ll be well-fed and contented is enough. For now.


	24. « Alpha Quadrant, Azys Lla – Abalathia’s Spine, Eorzea │ day forty nine »

As he watches the heliotrope swath of thunderstorms brewing in far-off clouds, Hope breathes a frustrated sigh. Initially enthralled by the wealth of information contained on Cid’s tomestones, trawling through them had become a laborious and endless task. He’d tried to bolster his ailing spirit with thoughts of how miraculous it is that he’s even here – doing this impossible thing on another world – but that had stopped working some time ago. Now it’s merely platitude; a monotonous void into which Hope’s existence is drawn whilst he searches through records of unimportant entities.

Yet that’s not even the sum total of his vexation. Straightening up he feels his spine crick back into place and glances across at the parcel sitting nearby. It’s a bundle of waxed paper in a sepia hue, with twine tied laterally around each side and neatly forming a knot on top. His fingers wander reverently over it, feeling the texture as she must have when she’d prepared it. Such a simple kindness and yet Hope appreciates it more than Coco will ever know. She’d even scribbled in pencil what lay within – roast chicken sandwiches incorporating winter salad and a rosemary oil dressing.

Thousands of feet above Dravania, Hope feels the loss of her from his life no less due to distance. He misses staring into those alluring malachite eyes and seeing the curve of her lips denote some subtle thought therein; their physical contact percolated with warmth and that personality made of goodness. Heat blooms inside Hope as he remembers how Coco makes him feel and what she inadvertently gives him in the darkness of night without ever knowing. Surrounded by a half dozen engineers and a party of garrulous adventurers at rest, he lingers upon that and attributes it all to her – the woman who’d stolen his heart.

And then reality washes over him like a wave of ice water. Hope hasn’t seen Coco awake in a whole four days. Even then it had been through the rime-glazed window of Cid’s airship as it departed from Ishgard. It felt like she’d seen him – that their gaze had connected for a flicker of a second – but perhaps it had been imagined. To think, a scientist so firmly rooted in logic and rational thinking neatly captured by intangible emotion.

Casting a barely attentive look over Allagan text glowing upon the screen ahead, Hope’s memory floats back to what he’d seen before leaving Cantillon House earlier. Coco’s raw red eyes and tear-stained cheeks hadn’t been illusory, nor had the sodden pillow and fierce tenacity with which she’d been clutching the Crystarium to her chest. It torments him to see her like that; broken by some pain whose origins elude him. Those little notes of correspondence they share don’t confer such detail – just scribbles and salutations, badly-drawn stick chocobos on his part and perfect caricatures of Choux on Coco’s.

Hope sighs with regret. He knows that he’s selfishly putting work before personal relationships as he’d done since joining the Academy at age seventeen. It’s exactly what his father had been guilty of in Cocoon. Bartholomew Estheim’s highly-paid job as an economist for Sanctum provided every modern luxury available but left Hope bereft of a father and his mother Nora without her husband. For years it had been the same : last minute cancellations of events, long business trips, sad excuses and that perpetually empty seat at the dinner table. After promising he’d never turn out that way, Hope has already failed the woman he loves and by extension Pahn'a, who’d ensured slow dismemberment should any harm befall her.

Resolutely he stands and searches for Cid, finding him immersed in the innards of a large orb-shaped piece of tech cracked in half. A meek-looking Steel Edge nods in silent greeting and Hope smiles back, curious at the expression.

“Hey lad,” Cid says upon noticing, wiping perspiration from his brow. A smear of grease is left behind instead. “How goes?”

“The same as it’s gone the past four days.” Hope offers the white-haired engineer a frustrated look and receives a conciliatory scowl in return. Several seconds pass without incident until he asks, “Can I speak with you for a moment?”

“Sure. Allow me a minute and I’ll come find you,” Cid answers and then he’s once again buried in ancient Allagan machinery.

Hope wanders back to the Helix terminal and gets through another three tomestones before the namesake of Garlond Ironworks arrives. His once white coveralls are spattered with oil and an intriguing blue liquid shimmering with light.

“So, what’s up lad?” he asks, pulling up a wooden crate and sitting down. “Seems like you’re making steady progress.”

Inhaling a deep breath before he speaks, Hope states, “I need to take a leave of absence.”

“Something amiss?” Cid inquires with a frowning expression. “Already boxed Steel’s ears for eating your lunch yesterday.”

“That’s not the reason,” Hope admits and experiences that loss all over again. They’d been flame-grilled steak. “Amazing as all of this Allagan technology is to me, I’ve been neglectful in other matters and need to absolve for those.”

Her name, even spoken by someone else, ushers in feelings of guilt. He nods in response to Cid’s ensuing question, holding their eye contact level. The engineer appears thoughtful.

“Well, don’t worry about the Ironworks,” Cid assures him. “We appreciate you being here but not a one of us expects you to give up on your personal life for this, Hope. Science herself is a cold and unfeeling mistress, take it from this old man. She’ll bring boundless joy in some aspects of life and leave a gaping hole in others. It’s a long and lonely road.”

Somewhat surprised at Cid for dropping the charade with formal titles, Hope sighs in resignation. He’d never really thought about that fact until very recently, removed from Coco and their especial closeness. She’d helped to make everything easier, provided a foil for all of his difficulties in adjusting to Eorzea’s vastly differential lifestyle to that of Academia. As long as Hope had Coco to cheer him along, nothing had seemed quite so terrible. And how had he reacted in kind? Insufficiently.

Cid withdraws something from his coverall pocket and taps it repeatedly upon his thigh, a look of unmistakable musing upon his face. “Forgot to give you this earlier. Cost me a pretty fortune and a regretful couple of favours down the line, but thought it might make our little project easier. Depends what’s on it though.”

He passes over what looks like yet another tomestone, but sleeker and pitted with three notches alongside a black groove. When Hope slots it into the terminal, both men recoil in shock at seeing that this particular object holds nearly a hundred times more data than either of them has seen on older versions. They exchange a glance, one scientist to another, and laugh in unison. Despite the negativity clouding around Hope’s chaotic heart a thrill of new discovery wins through.

Around twenty minutes later, both men are startled by the technical diagrams hovering before them. Cid speaks first.

“We’ve seen this sort of thing before, but the power required to operate it is beyond our means. You’ve heard of Syrcus Tower?” He frowns as Hope shakes his head. “Right. Well, it was the receptor for Dalamud’s energy collected in orbit. The Allagan dragon ball would leech off Bahamut’s aether and absorb solar energy then send it down in scheduled bursts aimed right at Syrcus’ apex. But – ”

“Because a constant beam of energy at that magnitude would affect the planet’s layered atmospheres, no doubt.”

The engineer beams at Hope’s interruption. “One can surmise so, but Syrcus ultimately ended up destroying the Allag themselves. From what we can gather through scraps of historical material, they badly anticipated the sheer amount of energy generated and one such delivery brought about the Allagan Empire’s destruction in a series of violent earthquakes across Hydaelyn’s surface. Their very own umbral era ushered into being, the Allag couldn’t recover. Floating in the skies as it does Azys Lla was the only settlement left unaffected and ground level civilisation was entirely wiped out.”

Hope absorbs that information carefully. So it had been hubris that laid the Empire low after all. He’d figured as much reading through the tomestones.

“Syrcus Tower was used to power a device just like this in order to force open a Voidgate?” he inquires.

“Precisely. And no, I can see that logical conclusion plastered all over your face but it’s not possible. The Tower is out of commission now and there’s no chance of a dramatic return, no matter how much that would help our cause.” Cid holds up a gloved finger to the screen, reading line by line. “This must be prior research. Probably figured out early on it would require far too much power and gave up, though that’s hardly the Allagan way. Brute force is though. Endless sacrifices too.”

There’s a lull of quietness for a while as both men read, Hope often waiting for Cid to catch up before scrolling down. He’d become adept at scan-reading during his tenure as Director and then expert by glossing over hundreds of these tomestones in recent days. Eventually he speaks slowly as to make each word come out as intended, clear and free from ambiguity.

“So just to clarify, we’re staring at a prototype device that can create a portal into the Void.” He watches Cid nod. “A device that the Allagan scientists themselves theorised could be given an address, a fixed point in astral topography onto which it will open and connect a bridge.” Another nod. “And all we need to do is find a means of powering it without an elder primal, in addition to somehow discovering the precise spacial location of another world. Correct?”

“Correct.” A tense silence falls over them then. The impact of this revelation will take some time to assimilate.

Hope’s voice is almost monotone. “Whatever you paid for this tomestone was very worth it, Master Garlond.”

“Eh. I wouldn’t call being beholden to Rowena’s beck and call a calming prospect, but so it seems, Master Estheim.”

“Excellent work Cid.” They regard each other and Hope is overcome with an electric sense of awe. His mouth curves upward into a knowing smirk as he continues on. “But I can’t help thinking you’re going to place the remaining half of our enigma squarely onto my shoulders. That isn’t a calming prospect either.”

Despite Cid’s assertions to the contrary Hope isn’t confident at all, but it’s a definite start. What had seemed impossible over a month ago now had some semblance of plausibility. His newly-formed dream of taking Coco back to Academia had been realised ever so slightly and he’s thinking of her even as he sees the document’s curious footnote.

“Where’s the Cooling Station? It says it’s here in the Alpha Quadrant,” he asks the other man.

“Just under a malm directly east of Helix.” Cid sees Hope’s expression and laughs. “Hells no, lad! I will not be responsible for throwing the greatest scientific discovery Eorzea has made in centuries into that much mortal danger.”

“The prototype is inside a small lab there. I can take half of the adventuring contingent with me,” Hope notes. Cid again shakes his head with vehement disagreement. “Think of the implications as a fellow scientist! What if our worlds could work together across the Void and reach out to countless others? The scope of such vast possibilities is beyond the grasp of one single nation like the Allagan Empire, who would have turned it to dark ambition. But knowledge and understanding on a universal scale. Isn’t that a future worth investigating, Master Garlond? What if we can set that in motion today?”

The ensuing half hour consists of Cid traipsing around with a belligerent Hope following his every movement. After being harangued with so many intellectual arguments rooted in ethical science and sociology, he finally folds to capitulation and agrees to the venture. Part of the concession is to send along two Ironworks engineers with a repertoire of door-breaking equipment hauled between them and no less than six of the adventurers to ensure their safety. Cid’s final expression confers little other than malcontent before he wanders off back towards his workstation with a dismissive wave.

Anticipation thrums within Hope as he perches on a crate and awaits departure. He has no reference point for the level of danger they’ll face, but surely the adventurers will see them through. If they fight with even half of Coco’s ferocity and skill, there’s nothing they can’t hold back. _Concordia_ , he sighs and leans backwards on both hands, staring up into the sky. Dark green swirls of cloud remind him of her eyes – enigmatic and endlessly beautiful.

_I would do anything to make you happy once more. To behold that smile and hear you laugh as you used to before all of this. Perhaps we can have another dinner beneath the stars. What if I somehow found the courage to admit how I really feel? Better yet, what if I were to hold you against me and show you instead?_

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Hope tries to imagine what Coco would do confronted by intimacy on a whole new level. Without a single doubt, he knows kissing her would surpass those times spent with the brunette whose name he’d deliberately forgotten. Fourteen years hence and Hope likes to think he’d been wise even at that young age, avoiding any future attempt at manipulation. Stories of bedding the Director of the Academy or of secret romantic trysts would be headline gossip, of course, but he’d somehow managed to avoid all of that by focusing solely on work. Perhaps Academia’s reverence for Hope had worked in his favour there; those possible claims seeming ridiculously spurious and falsified.

That celebrity-chasing brunette only ever desired him because he’d been a l'Cie – one of those dichotomising public entities people either loved or hated. Chiefly feared, though. As if it had ever been their fault. Precious few l'Cie chose their fate, most having being forced into it by a cruel fal'Cie overlord. On that horrific day back at the Hanging Edge in Cocoon, Hope nor his new friends had anticipated how their futures would enfold.

A hand on his shoulder summons him back into the present. It belongs to a Hyuran adventurer standing close by. He’s several inches shorter than Hope and sports the wildest shock of electric blue hair scored through with hot pink streaks. The holstered weapons clearly denote him as a pugilist based on that adventuring guide Pahn'a had gifted at the Mirror Planks.

“Weird here ain’t it,” the adventurer states rhetorically and proffers a hand in greeting. “They call me Saul, Saul Oscarro. I’m leader of this ragtag bunch. Seems wrong being out here in death incarnate and not even knowing your name.”

“Hope Estheim,” he says and cordially shakes the man’s hand. “Is it really that dangerous beyond Helix?”

Saul chuckles and motions towards the group lingering just behind. “You ain’t been out into the sticks up here, have you? Everything is designed to kill us and we’re only on Alpha. Garlean assault force is camped over on Gamma, Delta is full of rabid dragons and Beta … well, let’s just agree not to go there unless Eorzea’s on a knife edge.”

It’s achingly slow progress across the forecourt due to a profuse amount of snapper-rooks on patrol, but they eventually make it into a tunnel. Red-brown mineral arches overhead and rejoins with floor of the same make, hewn away in part with breathtaking sharpness to reveal Azys Lla’s underside of churning green mists. Hope backs against the wall and breathes unsteadily, closing his eyes against the terrifying sight. He concentrates on the texture of rock beneath his fingers and assures himself that he won’t fall; that solid ground is supporting him. But what if he stumbles? That eternity of falling, of having air ripped from your lungs and suffocating you, all the while knowing you’re going to die either way.

Shuddering at the rush of acrophobia, Hope is rooted to the spot, but then there’s a tight grip clutching his shoulder and he opens his eyes to find Saul there, staring into him. The man urges, “Come on pal, you can make it. Don’t look down now.”

Saul pats encouragingly on Hope’s arm and nods to make sure he’s okay then trots ahead to lead the group onward. Following the path beneath his feet one measured step at a time, Hope is overcome with relief when it leads out onto a plateau away from any sheer drops, although he doesn’t expect the panorama laid out before them.

Monopolising the vista is a cylindrical building banded with those symbolic cyan light bars of Allagan architecture. The rest is coated in composite outer wall of red and black variegated metal in alternating strips – again, in a style seen everywhere in Azys Lla. A communication array sits atop the building itself, fenced around with a narrow railing as several relay orbs hang unaided in the air. Several feet ahead of Hope the earth shimmers like a low-lying emerald lake, stippled by the uneven ground and waxy with the oil-like sheen of rainbow iridescence. Yet all of that pales into insignificance once he sees them.

Breath catches in Hope’s lungs. His stomach twists into knots. Pulsework machina of his universe pound out their haphazard gait in an endless series of patrols up ahead. Reflective luminescence gleams within chrome plating of the paladins, whilst most of the knights have corroded down to match the surrounding rust-coloured terrain. Hope staggers against the tunnel wall and laughs with unanticipated joy. These are working specimens of Pulse – fully functioning and active. Their mere existence proves his earlier theory that Hydaelyn and Pulse were connected across the Void, brought together in this one place. Elation wells up inside of Hope at that precedent. _If only we can reconnect our worlds once more!_

Each step towards the machina is an autonomous reflex powered by awe. Saul’s voice lingers somewhere both close and distant, but then Hope’s attention is drawn to movement on his left. A monstrous walking plant of dirty grey and spattered splashes of violet looms, immense mace-like bludgeons primed atop tendrils weaving like ired serpents. There’s a flash of activity and it’s suddenly behind them, blocking off the tunnel and forcing the adventuring party towards the machina.

Saul curses out loud and staggers back, his foot plunging into that oily run-off from the Cooling Station. Hope watches him fall in slow-motion horror. The instant he lands, one of the other adventurers – an Elezen woman with daggers on her hips – drags Saul up and hurls him bodily through the air. One of the plant’s bludgeons lands where they’d been a half second later, blessedly empty save for the crack of fracturing rock. Pointing to her ears the Elezen mouths a single word – “Sound”.

Hope nods in terrified understanding. _So it detects prey based on vibration_. Saul is beckoning to him, jaw rock tight and face lined with panic as he begins to back away slowly. Separated by that unconscious drift earlier, Hope and the adventuring party stretch even further apart with his lassitude. He glances towards the fiend, wondering if it can feel a racing heartbeat or the thrum of adrenaline pumping hotly through a person’s veins. His throat is dry. Fear shivers down his spine. One painfully slow step and then another. Muscles ache with the sudden agitated duress.

There’s an airless shriek instantly accompanied by a blurring of motion. Hope braces for impact in that split-second of instinctive action, but then a crunch of metal follows through instead. Heart thundering, he turns to see a Pulsework knight crumpled in half and tossed through the air as if it weighs no more than a feather. Watching it fall beyond Azys Lla’s perimeter, he’s dragged backwards to rejoin the group but they’re hardly in a much better situation themselves.

Hope, the Ironworks engineers and all six adventurers are backed up against a sheer drop as two Pulsework paladins scramble towards them. Drawn by the stampede, the demon plant itself tremors miniature earthquakes through the ground under their feet as it approaches. One of the archers fires a volley of arrows into its floral hide but it keeps coming, faster and angrier.

Shutting his eyes and grasping tight onto the nearest person, Hope can’t decide which is worse – a fate of falling or being crushed into an uneven pulp. It will be an ironic death either way; abandoned on another world and ended by machines belonging to his own. Heart feeling like it’s made of thorns, Hope can only wish that Coco won’t suffer too much without him. He knows she will. Equivocal regret burning through his veins, he resolves to be brave in that final moment.

Someone falls backwards. There’s the taut pull of clenched arms acting like a rope to haul them back, but Hope can’t move. Frozen solid, he can only retreat inside and hide from all of this. It comes together in a flurry : forcefully rumbling earth, hot vibrating air and cold certainty followed by an empty void of time and space. He opens his eyes to see that horrific plant pinned lifelessly to the Alpha Quadrant with a colossal steel harpoon. Cid in his beloved airship had saved them all.

Even the wonders of science inside of the Cooling Station can’t shake Hope of his abject living nightmare. Yet more insomnia fuel. Lingering in shadow, he watches everyone set up a perimeter and carelessly notes that the lights in here are flickering into existence for the first time in thousands of years. He’d almost brought about their deaths and left Coco alone in emotional limbo. For what reason? So he could run off home to Academia. To take the easy choice instead of accepting where fate had deposited him. Shameful. Cid approaches and slides a bracing arm around his hunched shoulders.

“Still taking that leave of absence?” the engineer asks. Hope stares ahead and nods mutely, guilt aching within his chest. “Chin up, Master Estheim. Nothing ventured is nothing gained after all and that was a good test of the Enterprise’s brand new weapon. Would have preferred a little more notice to mount and prepare it, though I’ll not argue.”

At Hope’s unbroken silence Cid sighs. “Look lad, if I stopped to fret every occasion life was put in danger, I’d be a paranoid wreck who never gets anything done. Eorzea is a treacherous place. That’s why I work a hundred times harder to make it easier for people who live here. If something I can do improves their time upon this realm, I’m wholeheartedly there.”

“You’re right,” Hope whispers and feels grateful for the support. “Thank you for reminding me why we do this.”

Standing there alone in the gloom of an Allagan laboratory several minutes later, Hope makes his decision. He’s going to tell Coco everything – about loving her, about wanting to make her blissfully happy – and there is nothing that can stop him doing so.


	25. « Cantillon House Estate – The Holy See of Ishgard, Eorzea │ day fifty »

Reaching across for the flask of mineral oil, Coco steadies Almace with the other hand and then scrunches a greasy square of cloth. She administers a measure of oil and observes the beads of fluid atop the fabric with a strange calmness. Pale translucent orbs the colour of pineapple jam shot through with countless suspended fragments; minerals ground into tiny pieces and glittering with indiscriminate light. Yet another moment of secret beauty lost in the grand scheme of Coco’s life. Where she’d have once smiled and graced it with awe, now there’s just an empty stare followed by long exhalation.

Her left hand within a gauntlet to prevent accidental injury, Coco holds Almace firm. She rubs the oiled cloth over its upper surface in careful whorls tempered by years of practice with her right hand. One of the most important lessons Dauremont had taught his eager young apprentice had been that of material upkeep. A swordsman apathetic to such disciplines is like to suffer his blade shattering in combat or the rusted-over joint in a metal cuirass leading to severed limbs – if he’s lucky.

Equipment needs constant care like this, primed for whatever may come. It’s a connection inexplicable to most unlearned in physical warfare; an abstruse jumble of facts they need never learn. But to Coco it had been one of those memories she’d held onto throughout the years; a fondness of earlier times spent in youth and the beginning of her adventuring story. Dauremont’s words echo within her mind : “Study it, unravel the make of it upon an anvil in the forge. Learn how the smith hammered the metal and caress along those lines, working oil into all of its telltale grooves. Heed well and live longer.”

Even Almace and Ancile – replicas of relics wielded by a nameless hero – aren’t exempt. Themselves a reproduction of some extortionately wealthy adventurer’s commission, they’re rare and salaciously expensive but by no means unique. There are probably a dozen more Almaces out there, somewhere. Coco strokes along the bevel and continues silently, not stopping until reflected firelight dances within the argent sword’s surface. She’ll be surprised if they let her fight with it in the tournament. Slicing through steel and softer metals like a hot knife through butter, it would hardly be fair, would it? Does such a victory partly absolve Coco of this torment of self-doubt or re-instate her fractured paladin’s oath?

Sliding Almace back into its scabbard she rises from her cross-legged position before the hearth and stretches. There’s nothing to do now but wait. It’s 6am and registration opens in two bells. Factoring in the twenty minute walk, that’s still a span of time with little to occupy Coco apart from housework and whatever flavour of dark thought is popular today. She wanders into the kitchen, loosing a forlorn sigh upon seeing the Crystarium on the window ledge awaiting some form of sunshine. Falling asleep to the sound of Hope’s directorial voice every night had exhausted it once more.

For the next thirty minutes, Coco saunters around doing various chores in a haze of ruminant thought. It’s the small things she misses most : Rhongo in his stable, little Choux begging for scraps; the dry witticisms of Pahn'a and warm companionship of other Elysian members welcoming her into their home. She’d always isolated herself and ran a chiefly solitary adventuring life on her own terms, but now Coco misses the social aspects she’d taken for granted.

Carrying a pile of fresh laundry upstairs, she breathes a sigh layered with different emotions; one stacked upon the other and compressed into a bale of desultory sadness. After knocking softly on Hope’s door, Coco listens for a while and enters when no reply is forthcoming.

He’s lying atop the four-poster bed, his lower half shrouded with the pooled fabric of a linen sheet. A thin jersey of cornflower blue conceals Hope’s upper half as he twitches unconsciously, his right hand clenching and releasing as he dreams. _Another nightmare_ , Coco notes silently as she deposits his bundle of laundry on a cabinet. His breathing is audible; the rush of air though parted lips punctuated with quiet gasps and the longer drawl of a moan.

Drawn by Hope’s discomfort, Coco kneels at his bedside and brushes slow fingertips along his cheek, into that silver hair and down the nape of his neck. She strokes the long-healed scar beneath his jawline – a remnant of rainy Crimson Bark – and suddenly feels like an intruder, but Hope reaches out as Coco withdraws. Fingers curling softly around her forearm, he stills into peaceful slumber.

She has never loved a man like this before. It had always been Hyuran adventurers, but robust and physically dominant. Hope is slender in comparison, given to a more careful make and possessing a different kind of presence; his rounded features, fair complexion and intellectual charisma irrefutably classify him as an academic. Just one from another world.

He settles into a more comfortable position and it’s then Coco sees the small leather-bound notebook pressed against his chest on the mattress. Curious, she retrieves it gingerly, watching for any sign of Hope waking up. She wasn’t aware he kept a journal at all, let alone one so similar to hers. Careful not to disturb him, Coco rests on her haunches and eases her left hand free to hold the little book, leafing through pages with the right. Her heart tightens upon seeing the very first word – her full name written in Cocoon’s angular script. It looks odd in a language she wouldn’t have understood without the Echo.

Heartened and perhaps a touch guilty, Coco reads Hope’s account of why he’d started making notes in a paperback book; because of someone else holding his Crystarium in their unyielding thrall. She smiles, hearing his voice in the words. Prose describes how it’s vitally important to write down observations and note key moments in research; to list any possible applications for his Pulsian insight. As far as documentation goes it’s tumultuous for Coco to read – joyful to see him settling into an Eorzean life, yet painful to learn he still holds that one aspiration of returning home. And then she discovers the final entry made only last night when he’d arrived back after midnight.

Ignoring the pain building in her cramped leg muscles Coco notes the sudden shift in Hope’s lexicon. It’s sombre, lacking depth and threaded with a kind of unnerving plainness devoid of emotion. She reads the report of a device they’d found archived on a tomestone up in Azys Lla – a generator of sub-space tunnels used to bridge the Void. Heart tearing to shreds, Coco continues on to see that Hope understands how it works at the most basic level and that given enough research he could make it operational. There are gaps in what he says – how he misses vital pieces out of that journal entry – but she fills them in herself. Sadness embraces that task, her depression smoothing over the cracks in Hope’s account.

On that night under the stars, as Coco and Hope lay within each other’s arms, her inner narrative had warned of this. It had been disgustingly correct all along. It’s obvious that he will leave her just like every Eorzean man had. There’s no chance of a long-term relationship. No decades of being in love or growing old together, just a momentary fling if that’s even possible. Some physical gratification without emotion; a denouement to their rising closeness. She could give Hope that, at least.

Coco can’t bear to look at him now. The pain in her chest is too forceful, too exposed and raw. As Hope breathes a peaceful sigh she extricates herself from him carefully. He murmurs something obscure just before the door clicks shut but it’s too late. Numbness soaks into Coco like a miasma, making it monumentally hard to focus on anything. It escalates the act of donning fitted adamantite armour to a problematic fumble of unfeeling fingers and short-tempered irritation. Perhaps it’s just as well that Almace will carry most of her burden in the upcoming tournament. If she’s anything like this detached mass of negativity in the arena, Coco will be fortunate to survive the preliminaries in one piece.

An indeterminate span later sees her sitting in one of Lightfeather Proving Grounds’ holding areas, staring out of a tiny box-shaped window. Icy mist shrouds Foundation this morning and catches distant sunlight in minute facets. The atmosphere glitters like transposed star shine, its backdrop a frosty veil of powder blue. If only Eorzea had some manner of capturing these beautiful scenes like the Crystarium does. Hope had shown Coco that miracle and she’d wished for a replica ever since. Moments frozen in time, set aside to appreciate at a later date with no vagueness of recollection like a memory.

“Good morning dear,” a cheerful voice calls out from behind. Coco turns around to find her patron Lord Anselfort lingering in the doorway. He’s wearing a typical set of noble’s attire in various dark green hues and a very optimistic expression. “You look positively radiant today. Ready to rout your opponents into the ground?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she replies flatly, wondering at his source material. Radiance is diametrically opposed to Coco’s current emotional state. Perhaps Anselfort has enough positive thought for them both right now. He enters the room and approaches her, handing over a bundle of folded cloth into Coco’s arms.

“I’m proud to have you as my champion, dear,” he’s saying as she unwraps the parcel. It’s a tabard in de Bissette-Rois colours, meant to be worn over metal armour and identify the noble house she’s representing in battle. “It appears we’ve gone full circle in the grand scheme of events.”

Coco unfastens her swordbelt and lays it down carefully, slipping the tabard over her head. It’s short and relatively unadorned – perfect for close-range combat. Let the more inexperienced fighters get tangled up in ridiculous capes and reams of cloth.

“What do you mean, my lord?” Coco asks as she cinches the swordbelt tightly around her waist once more. Lord Anselfort lowers himself down into a wooden chair and sighs uncharacteristically, completely avoiding any eye contact.

“When Ygraine was stolen from me, I believed I’d never recover. Halone had forsaken me, I felt. My faith was broken as was my heart, but then you appeared to change my perceptions. Such a young scrap of an Elezen, impudently headstrong and never afraid of hard work.” He stands and faces the window, voice unsteady as he speaks. “You taught me never to give up on life, that everything we face is merely a test of character. You aided me, Coco, more than you will ever know. And now you’re a woman grown, a fine paladin and upholder of those very words. Eorzea’s shield and protector of the innocent.” Anselfort stands and approaches to place a shaky hand upon her cheek. “Thank you my dear, for today and days passed.”

And then he’s gone, pulling the heavy oaken door closed behind him. Coco aches inside. She rests her forehead against the solid wood and takes deep lungfuls of air, shuddering at the apex. How could she ever regain that confidence in her own ability in light of current events? What would Lord Anselfort say to her admission that she’s broken, splintered both mentally and spiritually? No longer that young woman with a resolved determination to succeed but an empty shell; an imposter, a rigid framework of chivalry more intelligent people twisted to suit their own personal needs; a paladin too drunk on idealistic justice rather than reality. Dauremont had spoken true that night in the Brume. Ser Delouix is weak.

A single tear escapes the brook welling in both eyes. It tumbles down Coco’s burning face and spatters on the stone floor, just before a loud voice outside summons her into battle; fate’s demand for clear restitution – to decide once and for all.

Out on the sands of the main arena, Coco stands as one of sixteen challengers lined up in a semi-circle. Right hand curling around Almace’s haft, she closes her eyes and breathes in the redolent scent of crowded bodies : warm leather and perspiration, stone and cold steel with the aromatic notes of wax melting in candelabra mounted all around. She doesn’t want to see the audience looking at her; their envious eyes falling upon Almace, cruel dismissal aimed at Anselfort’s pear green and honey, nor the conjoined gaze worming its way beneath plate armour and lingering upon her curved anatomy.

“Women don’t fight,” someone had whispered into Coco’s ear when they’d all been lined up in the tunnel. “You’re made to work in a kitchen or pleasure a man in his bedroom. You have no place amongst combatants here, sweet maiden.”

In Coco’s hollow-hearted state, she’d stared ahead at the downed portcullis and said nothing. Perhaps that’s true. It hadn’t been some time ago, when she’d have summarily redressed that balance with sharp wit or a show of capability. That paladin wouldn’t have stood for it; this broken one has no such choice. People are suddenly moving off into pairs. Distracted by idle thought she’d missed the name of her first opponent. _You can’t even do that,_ bitterness laughs. _How are you expecting to win, by throwing yourself at their mercy or earning the crowd’s pity?_

She pushes away from the wall and waits for everyone else to separate off, then wanders out into an empty patch of sand. Heart fluttering with anticipation, Coco suddenly doesn’t want to be here on public display. What if everything goes wrong? There’d be so many witnesses. But another challenger stops before her and bows graciously. It’s a young Wildwood man no older than she’d been at Tailfeather under Dauremont’s tuition. Sapphire and slate grey heraldry, straggled blond hair stuffed beneath an armet. He has a sword barely half Almace’s length and plate armour with the faint blue tinge denoting a mythril alloy – fermented butter to her scorching blade. Almost too easy even without him being an innocent child.

Coco regards him softly. The set of his posture is tense, formal and yet those eyes wrench her stomach – pools of caramel darkened with fear. _He’s terrified of me_ , she realises as the call for preparedness goes up somewhere in the arena. Amongst the ensuing ring of striking metal, Coco is only half-aware of everything going on all around. There’s no way she can fight a child and yet she must. Preliminary rounds of Ishgardian tourneys don’t have draws but merely winners and losers. For several minutes Coco employs a defensive stance and lets the young man attack, easily parrying every assault he portends. Concealing those intentions comes with a lot of practice and many years of experience against more seasoned fighters.

One snapped flick of her wrist is all it takes to disarm him, the sword dropping impotently onto sandy ground. Endlessly mindful of Almace’s piercing proclivity, Coco holds her blade just shy of his breastplate and accepts the trembling yield. She can’t reconcile the look in those eyes as they focus on hers momentarily. Relief? Gratitude? Hatred for going easy on him? The result is still the same hollow victory. It’s almost like one of Hope’s time paradoxes where Coco had been battling herself as a sixteen year old fledgling fighter. Against a veteran paladin what chance does a child have? Not a single one.

The audience is roused nonetheless. It matters not to them how Coco had won, only that someone had progressed into the next round. Echoes of sadness reverberate through the yawning emptiness inside of her. One fight down and more to go.

During the ten minute interlude that follows, Coco wanders throughout the hallway immersed in pensive reflection. So far this hadn’t been the lofty challenge she’d expected it would be. Perhaps staking her entire career on this tournament hadn’t been such a wise decision. What if it requires a greater test of faith; something that would obliterate her resolve once and for all? Three more victories and it’d be done, with Lord Anselfort undoubtedly thrilled but Coco still feeling like a hollow shell. It’d be anti-climatic, to say the least.

Her next opponent is a Duskwight man in scarlet and white, a small round shield on one hand and a wootz scimitar in the other. Both weapons are designed for evasive combat and that’s how their fight flows. Every single one of his blows is designed to divest her of Ancile to the point of completely ignoring Almace. Coco parries and he dodges around, slashing at her back. Deflecting a high blow, he dances around to hammer the scimitar’s pommel into her rear left shoulder. _That’s what he’s trying to do_ , she realises and winces from the dull ache vibrating downwards. _His plan is to put my shield arm out of commission, but he stands to gain nothing from it himself. Wootz won’t even scratch galvanised adamantite._

Testing his response, Coco eventually finds his left side lacking defensive capability. She parries quick and stabs low, feinting, and then brings Almace’s edge down with force upon the wafer-thin scimitar, slicing it in half. A measured step back to throw the man’s own pacing off and Coco plants a flat-footed kick in the centre of his midriff. He goes flying backwards and lands heavily, a spray of golden sand thrown up all around by momentum. The adrenaline already thinning in her blood, Coco points Almace at that nut-brown neck and demands he yield. Two victories down and she’s into the semi-finals.

Without even a measure of water to quench their thirst, the penultimate fight looms over all four remaining competitors. Two will proceed from this state into the final and there’ll be one triumphant challenger claiming their hard-won victory. Names are called out, opponents line up to face each other. Coco feels drained even now. That last battle had dessicated a good deal of her remaining stamina, constantly overworking her weaker left side and forcing her to deflect a long series of sustained attacks. Perhaps she should have been aggressive and ended it early on. What if Coco’s physical capacity has been limited by her dire mental state in recent weeks?

Standing opposite is the bulkiest Highlander Coco has ever encountered. Tight leather armour clings possessively to every sculpted muscle in his torso, bunching like ripe fruits upon his tanned olive skin. His eyes blaze like wildfire as they meet hers, a smoulder setting air all around them aflame. Swallowing hard, Coco feels inadequate merely looking at him. Elezen women don’t build mass quite like a Hyur can, always retaining their svelte proportions and merely padding out with sinewy muscle. _He’s bold wearing only leather_ , she muses internally and feels her heart racing already. _But perhaps overconfidence will be his weakness and you’ll find an advantage somewhere._

Their battle is a fever-pitched exchange of sword clashes and parries. Coco has never seen a swordsman move quite so effortlessly, but she’s able to match him with considerable difficulty. Her counter-attacks are the result of furious calculations done on split-second notice and hardened instinct drilled into her from countless duels. They’re equally matched and it’s a thrilling dance of defence and offence; heightened tension thrumming through her blood. Coco double-feints and catches him off-guard, hooks a foot behind his knee and brings him to the floor. But the man grabs her left thigh and hauls with impossible strength. She lands hard upon the sand and instantly rolls, knowing he’ll seek to pin her down.

It feels like they’ve been fighting for an eternity. Coco’s opponent is built like a golem yet all of that muscle is solid weight and he’s displaying signs of enervation : slowed response time, weaker blocks and her last uppercut had almost grazed flesh. She need only last a little longer, to wait for the inevitable fatal mistake. With Coco’s inner reservoir of strength depleted ten minutes later, it finally comes and she’s staring down Almace’s argent length at him sprawled upon the floor; that wildfire diminished into a mere flickering embers now. Ultimately thankful to the roaring audience for drowning out her shuddering breaths, Coco bows to him respectfully and sheathes Almace before leaving the arena. One more fight left to win.

And yet the torpor threading throughout Coco’s veins won’t thin during intermission. Even divested of armour and pressed flat against a freezing stone wall, she can’t get rid of the liquid heat burning from within. Every single muscle is laden with it; soaked in unbridled fatigue and screaming at her to withdraw from the final. But Coco had made this promise to herself. Her future as a paladin depends upon an outcome either way. Self-worth and Hope’s affections would be won back with a victory. The possibility of failure shouldn’t – couldn’t – exist in her mind. What it would mean is too devastating to bear.

Her final opponent reaffirms Coco’s primal fear in almost every aspect possible. Another Wildwood man, yet his armour is exquisite and marbled with a beautiful blue-green tint reminiscent of Hope’s seafoam eyes. _That has to be lumythrite_ , Coco determines silently and stares in admiration. _How much did that cost to have forged? Tens of millions, surely_. There are only two types of personage in Eorzea able to afford such peerless cutting-edge equipment – Ul'dahn members of the Syndicate and extortionately affluent adventurers. Seeing a reflection of Almace holstered in a loose sling upon his waist, she knows for sure he’s the latter.

When their fight begins Coco can only watch and throw Ancile up on a whim as he strikes, impossibly fast like blue lightning. Tempestuous in raining blows upon her the man is everywhere at once. Coco’s one saving grace is the stance Ser Dauremont had taught that inclement last day of summer. Legs braced and shoulders hunched she absorbs impact after impact, each one draining her into submission. It lasts a whole ten minutes until there’s nothing left; a repeated succession of parried thrusts and countered offensives having worn this paladin down to nothing.

Coco’s vision swims. A momentary sensation of falling and she stares up at the Proving Ground’s domed ceiling. Her opponent enters that serene lapse of time soon afterwards, cinching her waist with his knees and sitting atop her chest. In that all-consuming wash of lethargy sapping every iota of strength away, Coco can’t even feel the weight pressing down on top of her. _This is what you wanted_ , an inner voice whispers weakly. _But did you do so knowing you’d fail? Did you secretly want to give up and made it seem inevitable so they wouldn’t question your motive?_

In that suspension of temporal flow, Coco looks into the audience for some wild and unknown reason. The very act almost freezes her heart for good. Silver-haired Hope stares back, his eyes gleaming and that gentle mouth curved into a bracing smile. Their gaze connects across the distance and she knows – he’s proud of her achievement, no matter what. It’s so long since Coco has seen him awake and that irrefutable draw hasn’t diminished at all. Full of intelligence and kindness, her beloved enigma of another world. She’d reach out to caress him had she not been completely disabled by a superior opponent and on the cusp of defeat. That thrice-damned promise means Coco’s about to lose more than a tourney final.

“Yield!” the other paladin shouts over the crowd’s roar as he pins both of her wrists like steel clamps. “Yield to me, knight.”

“I can’t. Not like this,” Coco whispers and turns to face him. She feels darkness crushing her ribcage and can’t stop the single tear of concentrated devastation dripping down one cheek. His expression softens then and eyes the colour of lavender lighten as he nods. Somehow that silent plea worked. He stands and proffers a gauntleted hand then hauls Coco effortlessly into a standing position. When she retrieves Almace from the golden sanded floor, her opponent collects his mirror image weapon and points it towards Coco’s chest.

She bows with the last remaining shred of energy and hands victory over to the better paladin, sheathing Almace in quiet submission. It hadn’t meant to happen this way, but she’d never broken a promise – not even to herself. Why start now? Wouldn’t it be selfish and even more pathetic to fold because it’s the more difficult path? What justification does Coco have to be feel capable enough to make her own decisions now? Fate had spoken. Unwelcome truth won’t be denied any longer.

Maybe Hope can convince her to never give up on him with a miraculous intervention, but Coco’s paladin spirit is well and truly broken; minute and scattered like grains of salt hidden amongst countless malms of desert dunes. She’s certain it can’t ever be remade in the same form again. Not in this lifetime.


	26. « Cantillon House Estate – The Holy See of Ishgard, Eorzea │ day fifty one »

Shrouded in the mantle of darkness, Hope exhales a long sigh and closes his eyes once more. There are so few sensations to cherish before dawn that each seems somewhat amplified into grandiose proportions. Swirling torrents of icy snow buffet the outer stone walls and rattle against a single window pane. The lingering aroma of floral perfume merges with cold ashes in the hearth and a delicate scent of beeswax candles.

Every new breath awakens the prickle of cold crispness upon his tongue and further reduces that threshold of shivering. Hope listens to the murmur of breathing just beyond himself and the dull reverberation of his heart beating within, echoing sound with a faint physical aftershock each time. His fingers brush lightly over the Crystarium’s flatness resting atop his chest, warmed ever so slightly with escaping body heat.

He’d found it lying beside Coco on the bed like a lover in repose and had stolen its place, determined to be here when she enters into the waking world. They’d spent too much time apart. It had been Hope’s fault and he desperately needs to redress that; to heal the wound torn open by their distance. In Academia work had owned every living moment and driven him relentlessly onward, but here in Eorzea it’s all about the people in a different kind of way.

Through their continued hospitality Hope had re-learned things he’d abandoned upon becoming Director of the Academy : friendship and laughter, relaxed conversation about pleasant topics and even that social awkwardness he’d shown as a young man. Everyone from Pahn'a to the Elysian household, Cid and the handful of Scions he’d met had taught Hope of other available aspects to life. And then there’s Coco.

As if roused by cognisance she stirs at Hope’s side, yawning and stretching out into a long line before curling back into a sleepy ball soon afterwards. He deposits the Crystarium onto Coco’s bedside cabinet and rolls over to face her. Alerted by movement, her eyes snap open and fixate upon him, confusion contorting both eyebrows into a frown.

“Is that you Hope?” she asks almost dreamily. Her voice is heavy with lassitude. “What are you doing in here?”

“I wanted to see you,” he admits honestly and moves a little closer. “I didn’t get a chance after the tournament yesterday.”

“Was exhausted. Came home. Fell asleep straight away.” Coco stretches again, the sound of cracking tendons causing her to groan in discomfort. She poses a question in a single exhaled breath. “Don’t you have work soon?”

“I’ve taken time off to concentrate on more important matters.” Hope reaches across to stroke her bare arm. It’s only then he realises what she’s wearing – a silk nightdress just like he remembers. Alarmingly, Coco flinches away at his touch.

“Seven hells, Hope! You’re freezing.” Her eyes focus on his almost warily. A few seconds pass before, “Get up, please.”

He climbs off the bed and stands, watching in surprise as Coco draws back the covers in open invitation. She retreats into her pillow with that typical shyness of uncertainty preceding moments of physical contact. It had been like that beneath the stars and on the airship that day, pertinent before the breathtaking clinch atop her bed. Heart quickening at the implication of Coco’s offer, Hope slides into bed beside her and pulls the covers back over them.

At first it feels strange. They’re still separated, even if only by several inches. In the looming silence he wonders if perhaps Coco feels differently now and if she’s grown away from needing physical contact. It would be ironic now that Hope has made his decision. Ten days could definitely have enacted that change in her. Is he being presumptuous in wanting to continue from the point they’d left off? Staring up at the ceiling with a head full of such negative thoughts, Hope sighs apprehensively.

“I missed you, Concordia.” The words are barely a whisper, escaped out of his mouth without prior permission. He holds his breath in the ensuing stillness, terrified he’s overstepped some invisible line. Coco is the first to react, unfurling from her reticent position and sliding a hand onto Hope’s chest right above his thrumming heart. They face each other and even in the darkness he can see that unspoken question in her beautiful eyes. It thrills him powerfully.

In response Hope slips an arm beneath Coco’s waist and pulls her towards him, his other hand coming to rest atop her hip under the bedsheets. He exhales gratefully as she melts against his right side; her body’s lustrous warmth providing a balm to soothe and ease away troubles. For a long time they simply exist in that state. There is nothing that needs to be said out loud as they regain what had been lost. Gradually Coco’s fingers begin to wander beneath his shirt and along Hope’s sternum, trailing softly across his shoulder.

Consciousness lodged between dissenting factions inside of him, Hope strokes a hand along the curve of Coco’s waist and states quietly, “There are some important things I need to tell you, Concordia.” She asks when, a look of concealed pain flickering over her face briefly. He admits, “Later on today. We’ve hardly seen each other lately and I feel completely responsible for that. I’m aware it’s not much of an atonement, but I’d be honoured if you’d have dinner with me tonight.”

Within the melancholy lining her expression, Coco’s eyes light up as she asks, “Are you finally going to cook for us, Hope?”

“If you like eating charcoal and raw food, sure,” he laughs softly, “But I wouldn’t subject you to that. Apparently there’s a nice restaurant up in the Pillars that serves traditional Eorzean food and drink. We could eat there instead.”

“Yeah. It’s called Four Seasons, which is ironic,” she says, snuggling against Hope’s shoulder, “But it’s also very expensive.”

“Don’t worry about that.” There’s a comfortable pause and then he says, “But no running through icy streets and hurting yourself this time, okay. And I promise this date will have a much better outcome than the last. That is, if you’d like to go?”

Those enigmatic dark eyes pore into him and Coco nods, the outline of a smile ghosting her lips. Secretly relieved that the plan’s initial stage succeeded without a hitch, Hope embraces her tenderly. Now all he needs to do is make sure everything leading up to that single pivotal moment is absolutely perfect and then there’ll be decades of mornings spent just like this. Perhaps Hope could make Coco happy then, returning her to that state of joy and melodious laughter he fondly recalls.

Later on in the morning, whilst Coco is out seeing a healer for yesterday’s rough treatment in the tournament, Hope busies himself in Foundation. Cid is afield on the water purification project they’d worked on together, but there’s enough time to go over some blueprints in his office. Aware of the unconscious smile curving one side of his mouth upwards, Hope feels liberated for the first time in years. As he copies notes about sodium lamps for the hydroponics garden down onto design sheets, he runs slow fingertips over the little notebook and thinks of her. That it had taken staring death in the face to make Hope even consider telling Coco how he feels is bad enough, but he’s never been known as a man to waste second chances.

A period of low mood had lasted all night after he’d gotten home from Azys Lla. There’d been a chilling nightmare – eaten by that horrific walking plant just as he’s about to embrace Coco – but then it had lifted and Hope had woken in a much better mood. He’d warmed up the customary stack of sandwiches she’d left on the kitchen table and devised his grand plan in its entirety.

Few men would invest much thought into wooing a woman so methodically but Hope feels safe around procedure; where he can follow a carefully orchestrated and meticulous system in detail. It had sustained him for so long – all throughout university and his tenure as Director – so it’s a successful way to deal with things he isn’t familiar with, surely.

Later that same day, Hope had left the house and negotiated Alphinaud Leveilleur’s offer – yet another facet of the one great plan to secure Coco’s love. The Scion had accepted Hope’s terms immediately and then they’d ended up at the tournament, with Alphinaud regaling Hope on Coco’s particular history during interludes. She’d been something called a “Twelvesblade” – a representative adventurer at Dalamud’s impact site on Carteneau Flats.

Hope had listened to the impossible story of Coco being suspended in the aetherial realm for a whole five years and of her various accomplishments as an adventurer; the way she had risked everything to save Eorzea from disaster and paid a heavy price. He can’t imagine how hard it must have been for her to rebuild a life when everyone she knew and loved believed her dead.

Even now in the present, jotting down notes for a new cold-resistant polymer, Hope wonders why Coco hadn’t told him any of that. _Maybe it’s still too painful for her_ , he muses and picks up another blueprint. His heart aches at her turmoil. After everything Coco has been through, she’s still suffering in light of recent events. Hope is determined to save her, somehow. _The more I learn about that woman, the deeper I fall. Who ever thought this could happen to me? I certainly didn’t._

Barely fifty minutes before the date’s arranged time, Hope is standing in their frigid bathroom and staring at his reflection in a mirror. Forced to evaluate himself thus he can see just how much Eorzea has changed him. A more mature-looking man stares back, slightly roughened around the edges now. The silver hair has a deeper sheen, presumably enhanced by a wholly natural diet instead of artificial supplements, and his eyes are much brighter; nowhere near as exhausted.

That string of forty-eight hour days had been a requisite demand of Gran Pulse and thankfully not Hydaelyn. Yet still, the most profound alterations to Hope Estheim are internal. Unconsciously smiling at himself, he brushes his teeth and uses a little cologne then heads downstairs filled with a warm sense of anticipation.

Coco is already at Four Seasons when Hope arrives, lingering in the lobby with a deeply pensive look on her face. For a while, he can only stare in rapt shock. Despite the chilled climate outside, she’s wearing a long satin v-neck dress the colour of mulberry wine and it dips low onto her chest. A white sash wraps around her waist and descends down over one thigh, the stark contrast in tone accentuating all of those curves. Her auburn hair is loose but flowing in sculpted waves over her shoulders like liquid autumn.

Eventually she notices Hope standing there in his stupefied state and walks over, her gaze fixated on the restaurant’s parquet floor. When Coco stops mere inches away from him he breathes in that distinctive scent of her perfume – sweet jasmine and starflower, he’d researched at some recent juncture. _By Etro_ , he whispers within the confines of his mind. _She’s utterly breathtaking and even I couldn’t have anticipated this in my wildest dreams_.

“Good evening, Lady Delouix.” Hope bows gallantly and holds out an arm for Coco to take, handing her a single red rose with the free hand. Even though he’d planned all of this, he still feels deathly nervous. “You look singularly beautiful tonight.”

Coco glances downward then, her cheeks blossoming with colour as she twirls the rose’s stem. “Thank you, Hope.”

When they’re sitting at their dinner table by the balcony a short while later, Hope contemplates her transformation. He’s wearing a charcoal dinner suit and crisp white dress shirt, much like he would have for any formal evening in Academia, but Coco is radically different to her normal self. It’s hard to reconcile that she is a strong and independent paladin, usually clad in tight leather trousers and some manner of armour plating. Her prowess in battle comes with a fearsome reputation for upholding justice. Even though she hadn’t won the tournament yesterday it mattered little to affect his judgement on that. With the level of stress he knows Coco is harbouring it’d been a monumental achievement to get that far and Hope is proud.

Observing her now, auburn head dipped down towards a menu, he remembers how heartbreakingly sad she’d looked. Upon witnessing the exhausted slump of those shoulders he’d wished there had been something he could do to help. Sitting there in the stands – watching Coco unyielding like a boulder as the other paladin rained blows down upon her – had almost broken Hope. To him it had seemed a direct allegory to her suffering and he’d been utterly powerless to stop it. No matter that Alphinaud had reassured him she’d be okay afterwards. That hadn’t been the point at all. But then Coco looks up into Hope’s eyes and he rocks back into the present, taking a sip of sparkling water.

“Have you already decided what you’re ordering?” she asks and he nods. One eyebrow perks up. “Well, that was fast.”

“Morel salad, Dzaemel quiche and roast canard,” he states to reassure her that he’s being truthful. That had been another part of Hope’s plan, deciding beforehand so they’d have more time to talk. His fingers wander across the table and curl around Coco’s, earning him another shy smile. “And sachertorte for dessert.”

“Great selection but no Sohm Al cake?” Coco asks. Hope frowns curiously before she continues. “You like hazelnuts more than chocolate, right?” He nods. “Then you should get that instead. Thin layers of maple-flavoured cake stacked into a cone and covered in whipped sweet chestnut cream with marron glacé sitting on top. I love making those whenever I get chance.”

Hope’s jaw drops slightly. “That sounds … wow. Okay then. No more sachertorte.” Her momentary laugh warms his heart.

“How are you feeling?” he asks several minutes later, whilst they’re awaiting food. He notices Coco has dropped back into that pensive mien and resolves to coax her out of it, one way or another. She looks at Hope and sighs, squeezing his hand in her left and stroking a finger from the right along the stem of her empty wine glass.

“Exhausted. Happy to be here with you. Sad at everything else in my life gone to hell,” Coco states. Feeling his stomach knot, Hope implores her to tell him everything but she shakes her head slowly. “It would ruin this lovely evening. Let’s just enjoy ourselves and see where we end up tonight, okay? Somewhere warm and intimate, I’m hoping.”

“Do you have something in mind?” Hope asks, his pulse racing at the suggestion. Coco’s eyes darken suggestively as she bites her lower lip and glances away with a guilty smile. _The plan_ , he intones. _Stick to the plan else this will go awry_.

“Perhaps. But for now we should just talk.” And then innocent Coco returns, gazing at him with those jewelled eyes. “How’s your work with Cid going? I hear you’ve been up to Azys Lla quite a lot recently and gotten involved with big projects.”

“We have, but I’m not going to talk about that when I finally have some time alone with you, Concordia. It’s because of my proclivity to fall back into old habits that we’re in this situation at all and I feel guilty enough. You deserve much better.”

She smiles softly and their gaze holds. “So we can’t talk about your work or my current mental state. No problem, right?”

Hope returns the gesture as their first course arrives on steaming platters. If Coco is unwilling to discuss what’s on her mind then it may impact his ability to cheer her up, but he’s not about to give up yet. Delicious aromas spiral upwards from both of their plates and he’s suddenly reminded that skipping lunch is always an ill-advised venture. His stomach rumbles.

“Did you ever hear back from Onayo?” Hope asks a while later, spearing salad leaves onto his fork.

“I did.” There’s a long pause as Coco stops to eat some of her risotto and takes a sip of water. “Turns out she’s the evil shadow and the other one was my long-dead mentor protecting us from harm. Except he’s also Eorzea’s most prolific serial killer and the reason we’re stuck in Ishgard, because he was responsible for the Maelstrom officer’s untimely death.”

Hope almost chokes on his mouthful of food. “Wait. What! It was Ser Dauremont?” She nods. “Coco, tell me everything.”

And she does, whilst he stares on in ever-increasing levels of bewilderment. No wonder she’s filled with melancholy and those distant, pensive stares off into the distance are starting to make sense now. Coco doesn’t explicitly state that’s what caused her mental downfall, but she must be questioning everything. Her entire life shaken up and turned upside-down in one single night. She’d been harbouring all of this alone and letting it fester inside. A sure recipe for heavy depression.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hope breathes, an ache crushing his chest. Maybe he could have done something. Anything.

“Not exactly cheerful conversation, is it? And besides, it wouldn’t have fit onto one of those little kitchen notes.”

“But Coco – ” he begins.

“No. I didn’t want to worry you, Hope. You have your own life.” She stabs at her main course distractedly. It had arrived at some point during the heartbreaking confession of recent events. His own meal sits before him in a state of partial consumption – half-eaten salad and a barely-touched quiche. Food is the last thing on Hope’s mind right now. Dispassionate as to what the restaurant’s other diners will think of his behaviour, he stands and relocates his chair beside Coco’s. One hand connects with hers beneath the table, resting upon her satin-coated lap.

“Of which you are an integral part. You don’t have to deal with these things alone,” he reminds Coco softly.

“And the alternative is what, exactly? Drowning you in them too? You don’t need my problems in addition to your own.” Hope watches her push food around the plate embroiled in a need for distraction. “I’m sorry. I’ve ruined our evening now.”

“You haven’t, but do you want to leave? We could go back to the house and talk,” he suggests.

A smile sad creeps onto Coco’s mouth. “I just want to be with you, Hope. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. It doesn’t really matter where we are, but I can’t deny you that wonderful dessert.” She sighs and squeezes his hand. “I could use a drink though.”

Reluctantly, Hope rises from his seat to fulfil Coco’s request. A turgid swill of emotion roils inside. She wants to be with him and yet she’s very clearly suffering. That pain despoiling her pure spirit of goodness is like a dagger thrust into Hope’s heart. Perhaps he shouldn’t have waited so long to tell Coco. Had his own fear and apprehension played a part in all of this? Is he just as culpable or could he have prevented some of her misfortune wrapped in the cocoon of his affections?

Hope returns to the table and finds it empty, his dinner companion instead on the balcony staring out over an Ishgardian vista. He joins her and strokes a hand down Coco’s spine, carefully relinquishing the glass goblet into her awaiting grasp.

“Thank you,” she says, breathing in the aroma of hot spiced apple juice. “I didn’t say it this morning, but I missed you too.”

“I figured. Inviting me into your nice warm bed somehow gave me that impression,” Hope dares with a nervous smile.

Coco turns around to face him. There’s a disarming set to her moist and parted lips and the way she’s looking up at him through deliberate heavy-lidded eyes. She takes a mouthful of liquid and swallows, her free hand raising up to finger the carved seashell buttons of Hope’s shirt. Suddenly they’re a lot closer and he feels unreasonably hot, burning like an inferno.

“Would you like that, Hope?” Coco’s voice is low and full of something dark. “To spend the night with me. In bed.”

Heart beating so fast he’s afraid it’ll burst, Hope slides his arms around her waist and leans in. At first, nothing happens when he opens his mouth. His breath shudders catastrophically inside. The smouldering heat of tension simmers in that small space between himself and Coco’s lithe body. He swallows the thick lump in his throat and finds it instantly renewed.

“You’ve more in mind than sleep?” he breathes shakily. She nods, dark eyes fixed upon his. “I would very much enjoy that.”

Despite knowing he’ll never be able to pleasure her like she deserves, Hope is determined to do everything he can towards that end. His fingers shivering as they caress the bare skin of Coco’s back, he remains otherwise completely still as she reaches across and clutches his nape, pulling them both together. It’s like a temporal distortion where everything moves impossibly slow for the purposes of exposition; as if it’s affording the opportunity to ingrain every single detail of this experience onto his memory forever. Destiny wants him to savour this and savour it he shall.

Hope has already suspended all thought processes as the warmth of Coco’s breath buffets his face, sweet and fresh and in fatal proximity. Even as her fingers brush through his hair in achingly torpid movement, he feels that impact of their bodies coming together; the way hers fits into his like it’d always meant to be this way. Coco is heat and delicious tension, coiled irrepressibly against an emotionally-charged Hope. He’s lucidly aware of their tender nuzzle; that infinitesimally slow incline downwards, tilting sideways to receive her with every shred of his being.

And then they’re kissing. Hope’s mouth is dry and yet Coco’s is soft as silk, luring him into her snare. It’s all kinds of innocent at first – shy and tentative, lingering as the repercussions fall around them like a gossamer shroud of abandoned inhibitions – but it changes post-haste, evolving into a hunger that neither of them will ever satisfy.

Coco tastes every bit as wonderful as Hope had ever imagined. Her own particular flavour is enhanced with cinnamon, cloves and the sweet tang of apple juice. The redolent scent of that perfume and unique aroma of her skin curl around him, whilst the scorching heat of their union melds them even closer together. Buried within her warmth, Hope is utterly devoid of thought. His Eorzean paladin has divested this former Academian man of his most basal instinct – deliberate cognition. Glass shatters somewhere close; a background note against the fervent pounding of their shared heartbeat.

When they finally separate it’s with great shuddering clouds of mist panted into the Ishgardian night. The blood pounding all throughout every inch of Hope’s body nigh sings with boundless elation. If this is how love feels as a physical sensation then he should have told Coco a lot sooner. _You still haven’t_ , a distant voice of reason curls through the ruins of Hope’s emotional wards. _Do it. Tell her. You won’t ever get a better chance to_.

Nuzzling Coco, that doesn’t seem so urgent now, but it’s insistent. Shrill. Edged with dark and prescient jeopardy. _Do it now! Tell her how much you love her!_

“Concordia,” Hope whispers with a fragile voice. Both eyes are still closed and his heart is racing hot. “I’m hopelessly in – ”

“I’m so very sorry,” Coco interrupts with a tense and unnaturally-pitched voice. There are tears in her eyes, spilling down her face and staining dark rivulets into that mulberry wine fabric. “I thought I could do this, Hope. I thought I could give myself to you at least once before … before you disappear from my life forever. But I was wrong. Please forgive my weakness.”

“Stop,” he orders weakly, but he can already see paradise disappearing over the horizon. “Coco, just stop and listen to – ”

“I’ll never forget you, Director Hope Estheim.” A tear-soaked smile to decimate his chaotic soul and then Coco is stroking trembling fingers down his cheek, breaking apart into tiny pieces as he watches, helplessly frozen in time.

 _Do something!_ That voice again, desperate and blood-curdling. Hope’s mouth opens but nothing comes out. One moment Coco is there and the next she’s gone, taking all of existence along with her. Surrounded by broken glass and the spiralling steam of spilled lukewarm cider Hope is left alone on the balcony. The sundered fragments of his heart are eternally lost amongst that mess, bleeding belatedly after being torn to shreds.

There’s only a stinging sense of regret permeating the miasma of self-inflicted agony. His resolve dies in the throes of its laughter when it tells him he’d spectacularly failed to do that one simple thing. Three innocuous words had defeated Hope. Silence had destroyed his future. Now that Hope had lost Concordia, how would he ever justify feeling anything ever again?


	27. « Foundation – The Holy See of Ishgard, Eorzea │ day fifty two »

Across the snow-blanketed cobbles of Foundation a long figure wanders aimlessly. Somewhere on the fringe of conscious thought he’s assured this is life-threatening behaviour – being alone and completely defenceless out here – but he can’t give up yet. She never would, had their situation been transposed. The only certainty is that midnight had come and gone; a twelvefold peal of bell chimes reverberating through the streets of Ishgard some indistinct time ago.

Heedless of shadows lurking all around, Hope arrives at a stone fountain and sits upon the edge. Under the soft veil of moonlight, cold black water sloshes beneath the iced-over surface and ripples indefinitely. He sighs, loosing a cloud of white breath into the air. If only karma could be corporeal and he could withdraw some from his abundant cache, stumbling into a lost corner of Ishgard and discovering Coco there. Serendipity willing, of course. But there’s a tacit unease behind all of these thoughts. The finality in her words had been too difficult to ignore. Even now as he’s sitting upon chilling stone and feeling bereft of all warmth they haunt his memory : “ _I’ll never forget you, Director Hope Estheim_.”

He stands and runs a gloved hand through his frosted hair, resettling the knitted hat afterwards. It’s not as if Concordia would have vanished into thin air but she might as well have. Hope has checked everywhere and found no trace. Their shared accommodation had been first, since he’d been convinced Coco wouldn’t wander the streets in that sublime satin dress. Tight around her curves and alluring it may be but it’s poor insulation against Coerthas’ biting climate. She hadn’t been there, naturally. Next he’d visited Lord Anselfort’s manor; an equally fruitless venture and Hope knows that even if Coco had been there, her patron would likely have shielded her. That’s what people do for loved ones – protect them.

It’s what he should have done but he’d been too obsessed with returning to Academia. The truth is, Hope had done everything in a Director’s capacity to prepare his citizens for the apocalypse. There had been little need for him to remain and exist in perpetuity, merely counting down the days until Cocoon falls. Of course, he’d miss Fang and Vanille’s liberation from inside of the pillar, but Hope had worked tirelessly to ensure their safety. So why had he been so relentlessly driven?

Walking towards Ishgard’s central stairwell, he ponders upon that. Perhaps he’s been unconsciously fighting Eorzea ever since arriving here. It is so monumentally different, after all. Returning to familiar territory could have been all the reason Hope ever needed, but it doesn’t fit properly. Lack of confidence to assimilate? No, he’d managed.

An absence of purpose? Cid and the Scions had given him plenty. Then he recalls that night – Concordia melted against his side in peaceful slumber as he scientifically dissected love – and knows outright. He’d been afraid of giving himself over to her; of relinquishing fully into Coco’s embrace. It’s almost funny. After everything Hope Estheim has faced in life, he’d been terrified of that one thing.

 _You should know by now_ , he outlines within his consciousness. _Every single person you get close to disappears, except this time it most certainly is your own fault. What would Light think of you, cowed into submission by an invisible fear?_

“Concordia?” Hope calls, passing over the threshold of Cantillon House and pulling her thick woollen scarf from his neck. He had kept it ever since that airship ride and cherished the comfort it had brought in their intervening separations. Silence yawns back. Throwing his coat and hat onto hooks in the cloakroom he wanders through each room, looking for her.

Each chamber is more barren than the last. There is no occupied armchair in the salon or rich aroma of a meal she’d cooked; Hope’s broken-hearted note still remains unanswered pinned on their notice board. Even the Crystarium – Coco’s habitual paramour – is exactly where he’d left it on her bedside cabinet. She isn’t here, no more than the last time he’d checked.

Curling up on her bed still clothed in the charcoal dinner suit, Hope breathes in his paladin’s residual mix of scent – sweet jasmine and the candied grapeseed tang of fragrant oil, oft brushed through those autumnal tresses. Despite heartfelt wishes to the contrary, Coco isn’t summoned into being by his silent pleading. Hope’s eyes flutter closed as he nuzzles into the pillow, intending to imagine her but instead succumbing to a dream-filled sleep almost immediately.

It’s close to dawn when he wakes judging by soft daylight rays filtering in through the window. Barely conscious, Hope reaches across for the Crystarium and is mildly confused when he can’t feel it. He sits up on the bed and rubs sleep from his eyes. Why wouldn’t it be where he’d seen it last? Unlikely that someone would have moved it. The realisation impacts into him like an avalanche. _Coco!_ Racing out of the room, Hope calls her name and pauses for a response, his heart pounding thickly. Nothing. Perhaps she’s waiting patiently in the kitchen with a full spread of breakfast laid out upon the table.

Unfortunately Concordia isn’t there but the Crystarium is, sitting next to a square of notepaper and a pen. It’s in that neat familiar handwriting and yet what’s inscribed upon it makes no sense right away : “ _Hope. You taught me that a picture is worth a thousand words in your world. I wonder how many an animated picture would earn. – Coco_.”

He sits down at the table and sighs, stroking along the paper’s edge. Concordia had actually been here but where is she now? Seized by a sudden flare of thought, Hope rouses the Crystarium. There is her portrait – head and shoulders situated in this very space he now occupies – and an icon to indicate it’s a video message, paused at the end. Chest ratcheted tight like a vice, Hope rewinds it and presses “Play”.

Coco has every scintilla of beauty that Hope remembers but her face is lined in sadness. With both eyes a mess of puffed redness and mouth a downturned slant of blush pink, she struggles towards neutrality. Pain stirs within him upon seeing her once more, stinging as that soft urbane voice starts to form audible sounds.

“I don’t really know where to begin,” her voice says. “At the very beginning, I suppose. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? And I’m already making myself look stupid.” Coco glances downward and Hope hears her sigh deeply. “Perhaps I should have told you everything, Hope. Maybe together we’d have found a way to solve it all, but there wasn’t ever a point in our relationship where I wanted you to feel sad for me, let alone pity me. I don’t think I could have lived with that knowledge.”

Hope’s tortured heart tears even more during the proceeding minutes as Coco’s voice outlines her depression and the reasons for it, cumulated into a dark cloud of misery. That it had been wrapped around her like a veil he’d known, but the cause had eluded him. Dauremont’s fifteen-year lie had been a major part, of course, but there are other facets Hope hadn’t even begun to consider. They had started long before his sudden arrival into the Eorzean forest that day, having being slowly built-upon over the years by disappointment and people trying to drag Coco down. Her profession, it seems, came with a heavy toll upon one so inured of goodness.

Just like Dauremont before her, Coco had been swamped in a negative tide of emotion. It had been somehow buried inside of her until that fateful night, challenged directly by her mentor and spun out of control. The lie, she had explained to Hope at the dinner table, had hurt most of all. Second came the inability to reconcile what she does for a living. If her methods allowed evil to exist and authorise more suffering down the line, then she’s never truly been a paladin. There are so many harmful words Hope identifies with. He wants to tell Coco none of them are true, yet this is just a distortion of time and his eternal curse wins through once more.

“But it’s not all bad.” She stops to wipe away a tear and attempt a brave smile. “There was this man. You may know him. Silver hair like sunshine on water and the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. I will cherish every single moment we spent together, because he made me happy despite all of that pain and I am sorry I abandoned him last night. I can’t – ”

“Concordia,” Hope breathes, touching her image on the Crystarium. But it’s merely cold crystal glass and a lifeless facsimile.

“The longer we spend together, the harder that one fact is for me to bear. One day very soon he’s going to go back home and I won’t ever see him again. We could have short-term happiness, but it will make the eventual separation that much more painful. I can’t live with yet another broken heart and he deserves better. That’s why I couldn’t get closer to him.”

Even as Hope hears those words, he can feel his own heart being crushed. _Your apathy did this_ , that horrifically cruel voice snarls. _Fate tested your courage and found it lacking again, so this is what happened. Coco simply got tired of waiting_.

Her voice continues on and admits, “What I wouldn’t give to walk back into that bedroom and wake him, to tell him how much he means to me. But I can’t. I think he knows though, somehow.” Coco warms into a smile and glances off into the distance, trailing fingertips along her lower lip. “Last night he weakened me. The passion in that kiss almost made me believe he could feel the same way. But this is Eorzea and nothing a broken paladin could give him would ever be enough.”

“You’re not broken,” Hope whispers out loud, angry and terse. “It’s my fault for not being here for you, Concordia.”

She smiles as if she’d heard. “Anyway, I had better finish up now. Perhaps this proves how insane I really am, sitting here talking to myself for almost twenty minutes. I doubt he’ll wake up in time, but let him know that I’m taking the first airship out of Ishgard and not to worry about me.” Coco’s image stops and sighs, her expression devolving into a sobbing mess of tears and shuddered breath then. “I should … I should probably tell him. Just in case he isn’t … sure after all of this.”

Tears brimming in his own eyes, Hope tries to wipe them from Coco’s face as he’d done before. His soul aches with regret, heart slashed open into ragged pieces. If only he could have one more chance to save her – to dispel all of that open suffering. Even as he watches, Coco stares directly into the lens and bites her lip. It’s a barbaric juxtaposition to last night when she’d done the same gesture, encapsulating desire then instead of misery now.

“I’m in love with you, Hope Estheim. I believe I always will be. Thank you, for everything.” Spatters of moisture distort her image and he can’t tell whose they are. All of it comes flooding back. Sixteen long years of reconstructing himself after that fateful day on the Hanging Edge and he is right back there, teetering on the cusp of raw visceral agony. Coco will never hear his choked admission, no matter how much Hope needs her to.

There aren’t enough words in his own language and Coco’s combined to describe how devastated he truly feels, but even Hope knows that sitting around will make everything a hundred times worse. He chooses as he’d always done in Academia – work over emotions – and arrives at Skysteel Manufactory a half hour later.

A few regulars are around, but there’s no sign of Master Garlond himself or his band of Garlean engineers. The air is laden with the scent of hot kindling and molten metal, but Hope wanders by the alloy vats without so much as a pause. He couldn’t care less about those right now. After hanging his snow-spattered coat onto a hook by the office door, he seconds himself in that room and sits down, palms flat against the heavy iron desk.

Absently, he looses a sigh and pulls one blueprint from the neat stack within arm’s reach. It’s the dreadnought schematic. Of course, it would be that. Suddenly furious, Hope tears it in two and stands up rapidly, shoving the desk away with such force it topples over onto one side. He goes over to the window feeling that wound tear open again. Coco’s absence is devouring him from within like a necrosis. Behind Hope’s back, the door slams open and introduces an angry voice to the office.

“What in the sodding hells is going on in here?” A pause and then it lifts marginally. “Oh. That you, Hope?”

He doesn’t need to turn around. The voice is familiar enough – Romillioux Verne himself. One of Cid’s more skilled metallurgists and a man with a natural ability to solve engineering problems. A Wildwood Elezen too, just like Hope’s erstwhile red-haired paladin. That thought causes even more consternation.

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Rom.” Hope’s voice sounds hollow and feather-light.

“Not a problem mate, but you ain’t ever struck me as the aggressive type.” The door creaks shut. “Need to talk it through?”

“That won’t help, I’m afraid,” Hope sighs. “It would have some time ago if I hadn’t been such a coward. But thank you.”

There’s the heavy scraping of iron across stone as Rom presumably rights the desk into its natural position, followed by the sounds of a cabinet door opening and closing. All Hope can do is stare unfocused out of the window, blizzard snow blurring against a backdrop of stone and steel.

“Sit down,” the Elezen almost growls. It’s a demand, not a request. He’s pouring a golden liquid out of an ancient-looking bottle into two small cylindrical glasses when Hope eventually turns around, having regained control of his countenance.

“I don’t need – ”

“Sit down. Drink it,” Rom orders, “And just tell me. I don’t wanna hear any daft excuses.”

So Hope explains everything in light detail, skimming over some aspects and missing out others entirely. It’s too painful to even remember that balcony, let alone the taste he’d had of Coco upon it. Her warmth and texture had been intoxicating.

“You know she’s in love with you, right?” Rom asks, downing his drink in one swallow. “That’s pretty damned obvious.”

“I do now,” Hope admits, pushing his glass around between thumb and forefinger. Alcohol isn’t something he ever touches under any circumstance. “But how do you know Coco?”

Rom’s eyes flick to the untouched measure and back up to Hope before sighing. “Mate, that’s spiced rum distilled in Halfstone before the Calamity blasted it to pieces. Priceless vintage. If you ain’t drinking it then pass it here.” A scowl accompanies yet another sigh as Hope relinquishes his glass into the Elezen’s reach.

“Your lady paladin and I have crossed paths a few times. Most recently when she came looking for you the other day. We had a chat. I made her a cup of leaf tea. She seemed upset over something but wouldn’t say what. Left in a right sorry state and that’s the last time I saw her.”

“Why was Coco looking for me?” Now it’s Hope’s turn to exhale in frustration. He hadn’t known about this either.

“Not a clue. She’s a real beauty though, ain’t she? Don’t see too many female knights like that in Eorzea.” Rom downs his second measure of rum with impunity. “Not sure why you didn’t act when you had chance. I would have for damned sure.”

 _Because I’m an idiot_ , Hope answers for himself. _Everything I’ve achieved over the years and yet I couldn’t tell Coco that I love her._ But he merely shrugs and says, “It hardly matters now. She took the first flight out of Ishgard.”

Rom frowns and glances over to the mounted clockwork timepiece over the door. “Er, mate. First airship out of this city always goes at eight o'clock sharp. Reckon you have ten minutes or so to run over and – ”

“What?” Hope interrupts, incredulous. There could still be a chance if he leaves now? “Why didn’t you tell me sooner!”

“I ain’t a bloody mind-reader, pal!” Rom laughs as Hope is already sprinting out of the office and onto the workshop floor. “May Oschon the Wanderer quicken your pace! Go stop the woman you love from getting on that airship!”

Hurtling past the alloy vats and several bleary-eyed engineers just heading in to work, Hope barrels out of the front door and across Saint Reinette’s Forum. The bite of Ishgard’s inclement weather steals his breath away, but he heads for the central stairwell with a racing mind and pounding heart. At least now there’s a destination but there are fewer than eight minutes to make it by Hope’s rough estimate. Can he reach Coco in time? Could he stop her leaving? Vaulting two steps in each stride soon causes calf muscles to scream out in protest, yet he pushes upward in a fog of determination.

 _You’ve spent far too long stuck behind a desk_ , Hope tells himself and laments that lack of physical condition. Up and around in an never-ending spiral, time draining away in that relentless drive towards The Pillars. Shoving indelicately through a group of chattering nobles, he finally makes it out onto level ground and sprints breathlessly down to The Last Vigil.

With the blood pounding in his head like a bass drum, Hope stops by an opulent fountain and tries to catch his breath, turning towards the eastward airship landing. The rear fins of an aircraft buffet back and forth in the torrential winds, whilst its darkened timber frame contrasts unmistakably against blurring white snow flurries. _It hasn’t departed yet! You can make it!_

But Hope’s limbs aren’t quite so cooperative since he’d stopped to recouperate. Lungs burning and muscles coiled to unyielding stiffness, he powers on across the plaza. Around a stone monument and almost tumbling down a set of stairs, he’s barely a minute away when a bell tolls out loud – one of eight peals to denote the current hour.

Distracted for a fraction of a second, Hope fails to see the patch of black ice and loses traction. Momentary flight and he lands heavily upon his left side. Precious seconds bleed away in a sprawl on the floor as pain flares. His exposed skin is already turning blue with cold. Every lungful of air feels like a bevy of ice needles. Shivering and numb, he manages to stand and hears the fifth chime.

Hope is near-exhausted as he stumbles through a crowd of milling arrivals and vaults the departure gate, that eighth peal resounding like a clarion call of doom. There is nothing left inside of him. He can’t summon the energy to demand that time cease and desist its rampage because he can’t even articulate the blossoming pain welling inside of him.

Someone grabs his shoulder roughly and hauls him backwards, but then Hope glimpses a miracle through the airship’s window – his sweet Concordia. Her face is framed by that fiery hair and those dark eyes are buried beneath a thoroughly devastated expression, yet they’re fluttered closed. She can’t see Hope broken and undone, slumped onto the ground in a heap of ruination and desperate for her to shatter this living nightmare.

“Don’t leave, Coco,” he manages in a whisper as agony coils within. But it’s no good. The airship is moving now, purloining her away with rapidly growing pace. He watches it disappear, numbed into empty oblivion. Hope has lost her all over again.

“You got a death wish, buddy?” a voice rumbles close to his ear. “Quicker ways to die than falling off the side of Ishgard.”

“Where is that airship headed?” Hope stutters, shivering in the embrace of abyssal cold. Icy snow pelts his thin shirt like a hail of freezing bullets. Coco is headed to Gridania, of course. Resolve flickers in to life within. “When is the next flight?”

The unfamiliar man pulls Hope up and wraps a coat around his shoulders, grimacing. “Not for a while if this weather holds firm. Half a day maybe. Come on lad, there’s nothing to be done now but get out of the cold. You’re frozen solid.”

With that much of a head-start, Concordia could be anywhere in the next few hours. Her knowledge of Eorzea’s terrain could hide her from him indefinitely. Hope knows his rotten fortune better than to believe she’d simply return home, waiting in her fairytale Lavender Beds house for him to catch up. But he can’t give up; can’t let her disappear out of his life. He’d promised never to abandon her and those words have even more significance now.

However long it takes and whatever fate demands of Hope, he will find Concordia once more. And then he’ll tell her those three mono-syllabic, earth-shattering words whilst she’s safely wrapped within his embrace. He has to believe that – needs to. The only question is : does Coco want to be found at all?


	28. « Elysian Free Company garden – The Lavender Beds, Eorzea │ day seventy eight »

Hope is beginning to discover that autumn in the Black Shroud is a beautiful time of year for Eorzea. There are no great seasonal shifts like this upon Gran Pulse’s surface that transform the land into an ornamented spread of crimson and gold. The fal'Cie terraformers deem it unnecessary and thus control the climate, forcing it into perpetual summertime. Before Coerthas, Hope hadn’t experienced a natural winter. He’d never felt the bite of a blizzard or heard the crunch of fresh snow beneath his feet; not once had his breath stolen away by sub-zero temperatures or beheld a stone city shrouded in white.

Sitting in the landscaped garden of Elysian’s estate, he gazes out over the treetops and up into the skies where dawn’s light is just beginning to crest the horizon. More than anything Hope wishes Coco could be here to share it with him. He’d slide an arm around her waist and she’d rest that auburn head on his shoulder, sighing at the magnificent panorama stretching out for miles ahead. If they were together he wouldn’t feel like a living antithesis to nature’s splendour and warmth.

Twenty six days had passed since Hope had seen Concordia echoing his own bleak despondency through that airship window. Every waking moment henceforth he’d existed in state of suspension, merely subsisting throughout efforts to find her, because Hope knew they’d end up at the same unwelcome conclusion – his ambrosial paladin had literally vanished.

Even employing the Scions’ extensive network of informants had only uncovered scraps of information; dry kindling for the pyre of Hope’s determination. Fate had thrown them together and allowed this entwining of heartstrings, but like a cruel trickster it had stolen Coco away from him. Where to and for what reason, Hope can only resolve to uncover.

Gazing out over the Lavender Beds he exhales wistfully and strokes Choux’s neck, feeling that tendril of oily dread slither down his own spine. Of course, Hope had returned here post-haste in pursuit of Concordia, albeit thirteen long hours after her initial flight from Ishgard. Following the trail he’d discovered Rhongo’s empty stable and a short handwritten note left for Anders, her faithful retainer, tucked into the letterbox.

Hope had memorised those words since. They are hollow and flat, like they represent anyone but the woman he loves – a beautiful Wildwood Elezen filled with warmth and intelligence; conferrer of the softest caresses, despoiler of a man’s warded inhibitions and hallowed paragon of all Eorzea’s goodness.

“I can’t give up on you, Coco,” Hope says out loud and brushes his fingers through Choux’s plumage. Downy feathers come loose and drift haphazardly to the ground, outlining the dodo’s ill health in recent days. He’d adopted Choux from Anders’ care in some form of emotional compensation. That little bird’s plight of abandonment resonates with his own, after all.

“I should sincerely hope not, else your life really would be forfeit.” The unexpected words belong to Pahn'a, who sits down beside Hope on the stone bench. Both men face off into the distance after a short acknowledging nod to each other.

“That I don’t doubt,” Hope breathes. He’d learned rather quickly that life and death are measured differently in Eorzea.

Pahn'a shrugs. “I’ve killed men for lesser transgressions. Breaking the heart of my closest friend would normally earn you a slow and agonising death, but seeing as she loves you I can’t very well seal my own fate in an act of petty vengeance now, can I? That would be most short-sighted of me.”

“Would she?” Hope asks, morbidly curious despite the threat. Pahn'a scowls at the question. “Kill you for killing me?”

“Of course not. Coco’s heart is much softer than mine. She would, however, never speak to me again and quite possibly do something to harm herself in her current depressive state. Which is something neither of us wants, is it?”

“Honestly Pahn'a you terrify me,” Hope exhales roughly. “I’ve never known an individual to so keenly substantiate threat.”

The Miqo'te chuckles. “Good. That’s how it should be.” His mouth curls upwards into a warm smile regardless. “But all notions of machismo aside, I know that you’re suffering and I shouldn’t taunt you. It’s your eyes, Hope. As well as you hide yourself behind words, anyone who knows how to look can plainly see that. Your love for Coco is deeper even than mine.”

A knotted coil twists within Hope’s innards at that single word. Love. He’d felt it dancing through his blood like liquid ambrosia upon the restaurant’s balcony, simultaneously euphoric and light-headed after their kiss. It had been perfect for mere seconds and then everything had cascaded down around them, shattering into oblivion. Hope has struggled to piece life together since that night.

Everything he’d normally do to consolidate his thoughts had proved ineffectual, with work no longer providing the stimulus it had and discovery being hollow without Coco’s joyful supplementation. It’s almost like she’s the centre of Hope’s universe and integral parts of his constitution are drifting off into space, severed now in her absence.

Quietness shrouds over both men. A crisp breeze cavorts around the ornamental garden, teasing the plantations of flowers and long grasses in its sweet-scented wake. Hope can feel the chaos swelling inside of his heart, fattened like a glutton after gorging on all of that darkness and misery. Perhaps it’s slowly consuming him from within. He relinquishes a laboured sigh and glances off in the direction of Coco’s estate much further down the hill.

“You must know that I don’t blame you,” Pahn'a states openly as he leans backwards on the bench. His citrine eyes are a faded honey yellow this morning, appearing dulled and somewhat flat. “In fact, I don’t believe you’re capable of a single malign act let alone harming Coco. Do you think I’d have packed her off to Ishgard with you if I’d felt otherwise?”

“Perhaps not,” Hope answers quietly. “But I played my part in driving her away. I should have told her sooner.”

Pahn'a frowns. His mouth twists into a curious angle and he says, “Yet it’s not always that easy, is it? At the best of times our Coco can be an intimidating woman even without her defensive wards. Unique, certainly, but maddeningly insubordinate.”

“That’s only because she’s learned to cope in such fashion. I’d show her a different way given half a chance.”

“I believe that. I can see why she loves you, Hope.” Pahn'a smiles at him lightly. “You possess a wisdom and calm patience rarely seen in Eorzean men. Hold onto that and trust you’ll be together soon. Could be that your forbearance allows her to settle down, though that notion seems too quaint for me. Our stoic paladin turned housewife. Not really the type, is she?”

Lured into a daydream upon suggestion of that scenario, Hope can’t stop one corner of his mouth turning up into a smile. He can easily imagine Concordia in a kitchen, surrounded by loaves of bread on one side and baked desserts on the other; replete in happiness as she immerses herself in that cherished activity. It warms his heart to picture her that way, turned aside from the sadness and anguish that Hope had inadvertently embraced in recent weeks. Could that be their future?

“Thank you for believing in me,” he says to Pahn'a who is currently arcing into a long feline stretch.

“What did I do now?” Elysian’s leader asks with a creeping smirk. “Oh no. Don’t tell me. Did I give you … hope? How ironic.”

Walking the paved stone path snaking downwards through the Lavender Beds a while later, Hope’s mind is at ease for the first time in weeks. He’d be remiss to take such a clement day for granted in this world free from a sentient machine’s grasp. In some strange way Eorzea is an idealised version of everything he’d ever wanted for Pulse – a place where people aren’t ruled by technology and where life is allowed to flourish and branch off into whatever niche it sees fit. Oddly enough, becoming a l'Cie had forced that vision onto him. No-one deserved a fate of being controlled against their will and Hope had worked tirelessly to provide independence for every citizen of Academia.

He had become a changed man without that purpose in his everyday life. The chasm had been summarily filled with discovery and adaptation in Eorzea – learning many things on a foundational level once more – but Coco’s influence had been tangible in them all. Perhaps that’s why it feels so much more painful to have lost her.

Choux jostles uncomfortably in the shoulder bag and the sudden movement snaps Hope back into focus. Almost there now. The white stucco walls of Coco’s house are visible from this distance. He’ll allow himself and the little dodo some quiet time in her garden soaking in nostalgia and then it’s back to work. Archery practice, running errands in Gridania, learning the adventuring trade bit by bit to repay that debt to Elysian. As soon as darkness comes, it’ll be running simulations on the Crystarium and looking over Cid’s plans, seeing how else they can improve the average Eorzean’s life. If Hope can’t find the resolve to work for himself he’ll do it again in order to make Coco’s life happier when she does actually return.

Lingering just underneath the privet archway of Astoria Hollow’s entrance, he breathes deep lungfuls of fragrant air. A dense hedge runs perimeter around the estate, dotted on occasion with tiny plumeria flowers in white and yellow swirls. There’s that unmistakable scent of late cherry blossom and the serene lap of fountain water splashing against stone. It’s just as Hope remembers from yesterday evening when he’d been loitering here, sitting in the back garden until sundown. His paradisal dream except for the house’s missing owner.

One slow footstep after another, he wanders across the lawn. Close to the mansion’s lateral side, Choux begins to struggle within the cloth bag, squawking and struggling. Hope extricates him carefully but then he’s flapping those tiny dodo wings and bouncing out of his grasp, tumbling onto the manicured grass. In a flash he’s gone – disappeared behind house walls. Loosing a resigned sigh, Hope heads after Choux and rounds the corner only slightly dismayed. He understands that desire to find Coco here without issue, after all.

“Choux! Where did you come from?” That voice. Straight out of his memories. “Oh, look at your feathers! What happened?”

Contrary to the fundamental laws of physics, sound reaches him first. Shortly after comes the sight of her sitting at that wrought iron table with a spread of breakfast covering its surface. Upon impact, Hope’s heart almost implodes. Is it really her or a cruel mirage? Has he literally gone insane and is seeing hallucinations?

Breath stills within his lungs. He’s rooted powerfully to that single place, mouth falling open into a slack-jawed gape. Hope’s blood thunders with tension even as his mind is completely emptied of thought because it’s beyond all logical explanation. She’s home at long last?

Time dilates as he’s frozen there, watching Coco in an aporetic stupor. Perhaps it’s just a paradox – a callous rift in Eorzean space-time – but then she’s turning and looking directly at him. Coco’s eyes widen in shock. One hand flies to her mouth and the other claws upon her chest, tightly bunching the frost-coloured fabric above her heart. Suspended in empathetic bliss, Hope feels his own heart being crushed – torn, aching, sundered straight down the middle – then re-made as she smiles.

“Hope.” Coco’s voice is a mere whisper, ethereal as he simply absorbs the movement of her lips. Her expression is at once elated and then confused, settling into an uncertain frown. She stands up slowly and places Choux upon the garden table then walks towards Hope, stopping less than a foot away. He can’t believe it. Warmth floods throughout his entire body as Concordia begins to speak softly in that urbane and gentle Sharlayan tone. “What are you doing here in Eorzea?”

“Where else would I be?” he answers autonomously and continues to stare. If this is a mirage, it’s the best Hope’s ever seen.

“Academia, of course. I thought that – ” Coco halts mid-sentence, her mouth opening and then closing once more. Seconds fritter away like blossom petals on the wind as he watches and waits, suffused with a divine sense of awe. She’s every iota that beautiful and alluring woman Hope had been yearning for. A deep breath and then, “I don’t understand. You had that journal with the portal schematics written down within it. I thought by now you’d have figured it out and gone back home.”

Drawn by her voice like a siren’s song Hope slowly edges closer to Coco. They’re mere inches apart now, suspended in a temporal stasis of unbelieving stares and thundering heartbeats. It shatters within his mind like a crystallised memory and then he’s launching forward, coiling arms around Coco’s waist and crushing her body against his. Hope feels the duplicity of their shuddering breaths and hears his blood sing once more in a rousing cantata, thrilled at the tightness of Coco’s own embrace. He had dreamed of this for so long. _Don’t let her go this time_ , the voice inside urges. _Claim her! Make her yours!_

“Concordia,” Hope breathes, nuzzling tenderly at her face. “I would never abandon you. I made that promise, remember?”

She withdraws slightly as those angelic eyes brim with tears and shine like carved malachite orbs. “Of course I do. But I had no right to keep you here, stuck on our primitive world when you’re used to something so much better. Who am I to deny you that opportunity?” Coco exhales softly and her warm breath buffets Hope’s face. “I felt … I felt that I needed to let you go but I hadn’t anticipated how truly painful that would be. You were the only goodness in my life and I abandoned you.”

“No. Don’t worry about that now,” he soothes, palming a hand down the back of her dress. She feels so warm and soft and miraculously solid like his fantasies made real. “I missed you so much, Coco. Please don’t leave me alone again like that.”

She squeezes him tightly as a tear rolls over her cheek, coasting down until Hope catches it against one thumb. Coco’s moist lips part with tantalising slowness as she returns his stare. “Are you sure? My life is still a calamitous wreck right now.”

“And mine is in a comparably decimated state without you in it, so yes. Let’s do everything together now, please.” In pulling her even more firmly towards him, Hope’s pulse begins to race at their closeness. He can feel every feminine curve of Coco’s body pressed into him even as he quickens towards arousal. She doesn’t seem perturbed at all by that and he makes no effort to hide it. How could he deny that most instinctive part of himself now that they’re together again?

A hard swallow later and Hope is asking, “That message on the Crystarium, is it accurate now? Are you … still in love with me Concordia?”

“Yes.” She glances away just as an adorable blush stains her cheeks, but Hope tilts Coco back to face him.

“Then there’s something I have to concede,” he admits with a furiously pounding heart. “I’m in love with you too.”

Coco’s eyes widen and she loosens her grip, mouth forming a perfect oval. “What! But I don’t think – ”

One impetuous moment is all it takes. Surrounded by the warmth of an autumnal forest, this isn’t like their clinch upon that restaurant balcony – needled by brittle cold winds and fragile insecurity. When Hope kisses Concordia this time around it’s fierce and salacious almost immediately, imbued with every ounce of passion racing through his blood. Wanton with need he forces Coco up against the white stucco walls of her mansion and delves deep, ravenous like she’s an oasis in the desert.

Seconds melt into minutes. Minutes evaporate into timeless euphoria as she reciprocates with equal savagery. Their physical reunion is smouldering hot and intense. Coco groans softly into Hope’s mouth as he pushes adamantite hard against her, his fingers scrunching that frost-coloured dress and buried in auburn tresses. Her feminine scent is driving him wild. She tastes of rose blossom honey and sweet milky tea as her own raw lust reverberates with his coiled so powerfully inside.

Fabric tears as Coco tugs at Hope’s shirt and claws delicately along his spine. Any residual part of his former self – a rational, cool, professional man of perfect composure – is abandoned in lieu of claiming her wholly. Gone is that sober Academian scientist, subdued and inert. And yet despite their scorching reciprocal need, it ebbs off into innocent caress against her Lavender Beds house.

“Gods above, Hope.” Coco’s voice is stilted now, punctuated with long throaty sighs. “Where did you learn to kiss like that?”

“Was it convincing enough for you?” he pants breathlessly. The sweet taste of her lingers upon his tongue. She swallows hard, both arms wrapped around Hope’s neck and dragging him downwards.

“Say it again, just to make sure.”

“Which part?” he asks mischievously. Coco shoves against him with playfulness. “Oh! That part, huh. I love you, Concordia.”

As they stare into each other, Hope can’t help but notice how unafraid she is. He abstractly wonders at his own courage now that some mental faculty has skulked back into his consciousness. Perhaps he isn’t meant to have lucid thought around this woman and he finds himself bewitched by that notion. This could become addictive rather quickly.

“So how long have I been stupid enough to not realise that?” his beautiful Elezen asks, easing into a more comfortable fit.

“Well, I could take this opportunity to be smooth and romantic, but in all honesty it’s that night you almost seduced me.” Hope allows himself a fleeting recollection. “As we lay together atop your bed it occurred to me that I’d fallen for you.”

“Almost?” Coco’s eyebrows edge upwards with incredulity. “Wait, we really came that close?” He nods. They had, after all. “Oh Hope. As if I didn’t feel embarrassed enough after falling asleep on you, I was convinced you didn’t want me that way.”

“Coco!” he laughs softly, “I could hardly disguise it given my position. Did you not notice that I had – ”

“Yes. Of course I did!” There’s that laughter he’d missed, melodious and full of syrup-like sweetness. “And yet you didn’t act upon it even when I told you to. I thought that perhaps you enjoyed our closeness but didn’t want to commit any further.”

Now it’s Hope’s turn to look dumbfounded. Had Concordia really believed that? Given her depression it’s entirely possible.

“Oh, I very much wanted to. At that time, however, I had been convinced that my physical inexperience would only do more harm and I couldn’t allow that. The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you.“ Hope cups Coco’s face in his hands, staring straight into those dark eyes. “Soon after we met, I began to think about you with an ever-increasing fondness, Concordia. That enigmatic beauty who’d saved my life, concealing herself behind a protective shroud. I wanted to know why. Had I the means to decipher her? If I could, where would we end up together? I’d daydream at length about those very notions.”

“As I did about you.” Coco strokes upwards along Hope’s back, sighing lightly. “Not all of them innocent.”

“Likewise. For a physicist who’d centred his life around unerring logic that’s quite a feat. I’m terribly proud of you.”

“So, is this particular scientist a romantic at heart then?” she asks him, teasing with a slow nuzzle.

After pressing a kiss onto Coco’s lips Hope exhales blissfully. “I don’t actually know. I suppose we’ll learn that together, won’t we, but I have a feeling he’ll do his utmost to impress you. When did you realise you’d fallen in love with that idiot?”

“You can’t guess?” Coco asks. Hope shakes his head. He could but wants to hear it first-hand. “That night beneath the stars. I think I’d been apprehensive to label it until then.” She smiles coyly at him, caressing between both shoulders in lazy whorls. It’s unsurprisingly cathartic and soothing. “You’ve changed now, haven’t you Hope? There isn’t an onze of nervousness left.”

“Being apathetic caused me to lose you once, Coco. It won’t happen again. Besides, I feel quietly confident after that kiss.”

“Mmm, do you now? I think that merits further examination,” she purrs darkly, luring Hope into her mouth before he can respond with words. This time it’s slow and arduous but his normally industrious physicist’s mind is still empty throughout.

An eternity later, as the golden sunshine warms them both through in their conjoined position on the lawn, Hope stares into the cloudless sky and looses a beatific sigh. He knows now why Snow had moved heaven and earth to reclaim Serah; why Noel had been determined to rescue Yeul from the ravages of infinite chaos. Love is something powerful indeed – so intrinsically esoteric unless you’re swept along in the clutches of it. The thrill of scientific discovery is all well and good but it can’t replace this feeling. He wouldn’t ever want it to.

What would Hope’s friends think of him now? Perhaps they’d be amazed at how well he’s adjusted to life in Eorzea. He thinks the beautiful terrain and easygoing lifestyle would suit more than a few of them. Would they be surprised that he’d finally found a woman worth fighting for? Fang would hug his shoulders in a vice-like grip whilst Vanille would wear that darkness-banishing smile. And Light herself? Maybe she’d be proud of her charge now that he can truly fend for himself.

After all, Hope had been that troubled young teenager turned Director of the Academy, now existing outside of Pulse’s timeline in another world. Someday he’ll ask them face to face with Concordia right there at his side. It can and will happen. Nothing is impossible now that they’re finally together.

“We have a lot of catching up to do,” Hope says, palming a hand along Coco’s rounded hip. “Did you know I joined the Scions as a consultant scientist?”

“Until earlier this morning I believed you were home in Academia, but did you really?” she asks, propped up on one elbow.

Replete in a serenity he hadn’t felt for decades, Hope sighs and combs lazy fingers through that cascade of red hair. His Concordia is so profoundly beautiful and unique, but he wants to capture this particular image of her in his mind before she devolves into a tear-stained wreck. There in the confines of his brain he tries to imagine how long she’ll last.

Because Hope Estheim is about to explain just why he’d joined that most exclusive of Eorzean institutions. Originally, it hadn’t been about helping people or saving this bucolic realm. Science hadn’t even come into the equation. Philanthropy and an altruistic cause didn’t sway him more than that one addictive lure. Even Academia had nothing to do with it.

No, it had involved a red-haired paladin that Hope would later admit to being in love with and a certain snowy night in particular. Holding her in his arms. Staring deeply into those captivating dark green eyes. Asking if she’d ever had a dream.

With the Scions of the Seventh Dawn fulfilling their side of the agreement, Hope had achieved that one fervent wish she’d been unable to. Instinctively drawn into her warm and loving gaze, he enjoys that fractional last second of composure. And then Hope tells Concordia that they’d found both of her parents living in Sharlayan along with her beloved grandfather, Sylvain Delouix.

As he’d calculated she sobs uncontrollably before he even reaches the part about them visiting next month.

* * *

The end … for now.


End file.
